LE to NE

As BBC weather introduced a new extreme heat symbol to their weather maps, one randonneur set off to ride 900km from Land’s End to Tyneside

A clear blue sky hung over the peninsular as I coasted the few short miles down to Land’s End. Kevin was waiting looking sharp and keen. His weightless titanium bike catching the morning sun.

With a quick photograph standing before the visitor complex, we were off down the A30 just after 9am. It was already warming up and the headwind was welcome. 

Many months before I had put my name down for Andy Corless’ 1400km audax LEJOG. Sadly, as the intervening months ran parallel to a pandemic the twists and turns of regulations and restrictions knocked the event on the head and I opted to have my entry rolled over the 2022. Meanwhile I’d booked accommodation at St Just and a train ticket to Penzance. I’d also contacted Kevin who lived but a few miles from LE, and he’d agreed to ride with me for part of the way. Also, meanwhile I’d ridden in the Ayrshire hills the previous month and been ravaged by midge. No way was I crossing the Scottish border to repeat the experience. I reviewed the route and decided that a shorter ride to Newcastle in North East England looked like a nice alternative.

At Maruzen another pic before Michael’s Mount where we met the retired club chairman of the Bank of England Cycling Club, who had just moved up to Newcastle. He seemed surprised I planned to cycle there in a little under 3 days.

Leaving the coast, a series of hills followed. At the foot of each one I dropped into my granny ring while Kevin would ride alongside barely turning the pedals. We headed higher and into the Cornish Alps, an area with permanently white-capped hills from the ongoing clay mining. It was good to take a breather and a swig from the bidon as the sun beat down on us.

At Truro we had our first stop at a garage off the busy A390. It’s almost impossible to avoid busy roads in parts of Cornwall; although I took advantage of cycle paths when I saw them, they were often better than useless. However, we only followed the main road until after Tresillan after following the charming Tresillan River.

A few more hills and we reached the A30 services at Penhale, crowded with hot motorists seeking succour from the day’s heat.  After a quick trip to Gregg’s we parted ways – Kevin back home to the peninsular, while I carried on further north.

I’d selected my 3-year old Flying Gate rigged out as it had been for PBP in 2019 for this adventure. This included adding a generous front rack and bar bag. While unwealdy when stopped (or going steeply uphill) it coasted nicely on the flat and flew downhill. Nonetheless, it was probably twice as heavy as Kevin’s setup. But more importantly, it gave off that cool East Coast rando look that I was seeking.

The hills of Cornwall seemed relentless. Sharp and relatively short punches that hit your legs again and again. Kevin had mentioned that the Cornish Hills had been the graveyard of many audax aspirations, and I was anxious to ensure that I didn’t fall victim to the shark’s teeth of Kernow. This was easier said than done in the stifling heat. Regular stops at garages along the route were called for in order to catch my breath, lower the heart rate and cool down. 


Bodmin was bypassed, Minions clambered over with its ruinous mines stark against the backdrop of Bodmin Moor; Crediton and Tiverton reached with a good 200kms behind me. Refuelling for the night at another garage I set off for the final and flatter section to Taunton Dean, reaching the services motel at a quarter to two in the morning – about 2 hours after my planned time, but with 2 hours in hand for a badly needed shower and some zzzs’s. This was the shortest leg – just shy of 260kms and 3.7km of climbing at 17.4 km/h.

Two hours later and I was up and ready to resume my journey. At Taunton I went off-road and followed a canal towpath as the sun rose through the mists of Avalon. It led me out to the Somerset Levels where I re-joined the roads and cut a path to Cheddar where a stopped for a bite to eat. A cyclist stopped, heading in the opposite direction – a LEJOGer who had taken a week or so to get this far south. He seemed surprised when I mentioned that I had left Land’s End less than 24 hours earlier.

Cheddar Gorge

Cheddar Gorge is always good for warming up the legs. Workers were clearing away some heavy rocks from the roadside – presumably following a landslide – and I had to walk for a short section. Over the top (which was further than I remembered) I could see Chew Valley Lake, my next landmark. Some busy roads and a few lanes and I reached the outskirts of Bristol. I’d not come into the city from this direction before and it took me a while before I reached the city centre via some canal-side. Just before the cycle trail to Bath I spotted the Bakehouse Cafe. It was red-hot again and I needed rehydrating and refuelling. A huge chicken focaccia fuelled me for the next leg which swung around eastern and northern Bristol before crossing the Severn Bridge (via a familiar route) and then a lengthy slog up the Wye Valley to Monmouth passing Tintern Abbey. 

Tintern Abbey

The next section was tough. Lots of heavy climbs all the way to Callow Hill, perched high above Hereford. I opted to avoid the A49, which was quite a good decision as a VW Golf shimmied off the road onto the grass verge beside me and then juddered to a halt. I believe the driver had been trying to undertake an artic when he had run out of road. Some very gritty lanes and then I was into the heaving and heavily-potholed streets of Hereford. I found a co-op at the far side of town and flopped down to some cold drinks and a bite to eat. The heat was oppressive. Angry motorists swarmed around the potholed roads eager to be elsewhere (and who could blame them).


Up a steep hill out of town, squeezing through closed road barriers and then along some busy and rolling roads through Leominster and Ludlow and towards the Shropshire Hills – home to my Flying Gate bicycle (hewn from 635 tubing in a barn near Bishop’s Castle). The air was cooling and the sun setting as I found myself on a familiar road that led me past the Wilderhope Manor youth hostel – a hill where I had to get off and walk. This was a low point and my eyes were playing tricks. I grabbed a handful of chocolate-coated coffee-beans to help keep the mind clear and the eyes from playing tricks.

At Shrewsbury I spotted a Sainsbury’s and pulled up outside. It had been an intensely hot day and the drinks aisle was all but depleted (a result not just of the hot weather, but also the spreading pingdemic). There was no water so I ended up filling one bidon with milk. After cooling down and refuelling I set off into the night through the centre of Shrewsbury and on the road to Northwich via Wem. The landscape had significantly levelled-out now and I made reasonable time. Despite the late hour it was still busy with plenty of trucks and cars on the roads. To my right the skyline blazed in the rough direction of Crewe. Eventually signs for Middlewich came into sight. I finally made it to the Travelodge just before three-thirty am (just over 2 hours before the broom waggon arrived).  A quick shower and into the sack. The longest stage at 345kms with 2.8km of climbing at 17.6 km/h.

The alarm went off and I poured all of the sachets of coffee into the cup and set out into the early morning Cheshire light. Ahead of me lay nothing less than the entire rest of the journey. Some pretty flat and busy lanes led me rapidly to Tatton Park which had just opened its heavy and oversized gates to the gathering dogwalkers. Some horticultural show was in progress at the far end of the park where I shot out like an escaped deer. Well-heeled villages drew me towards affluent Hale where I screeched to a halt outside a café and ordered eggs benedict and smoked salmon, washed down with freshly squeezed orange juice and a flat white – my first proper sit-down meal since Bristol. Already it was hot and glitzy sportscars and classy but scantily clad fashionistas were hitting the streets.

Refreshed I managed to almost completely bypass the streets of Manchester via judicious use of the Bridgewater Canal towpath and Roe Green Loopline cycepath which spat me out onto the busy A6 – my home for the best part of the rest of my western leg of the journey. This charming thoroughfare took me through Chorley, Preston (the wrecking balls cannot come soon enough), Garstang and Lancaster. Near Garstang I spotted an ice cream parlour just alongside the A6 and leapt from my hot saddle to inhale some cool cream and cold drinks. It was just the tonic for just after Carnforth it became a little lumpy and I sensed that I wasn’t far from the Lake District. Some less busy roads brought me into Kendal where I spotted a conveniently-located garage and washed down some of the road grit and refilled by bidons. I knew what was ahead of me and it filled me slightly with both dread and awe.

Shap Fell is literally the high-point of the journey. I’d only cycled over it once before on the Deloitte LEJOG Ride Across Britain in 2014, but its sheer presence had stayed with me ever since and I was looking forward to scaling it once again. Just after leaving Kendal comes the warning sign, and the road starts to ramp up and begin snaking between the lower slopes. It was a perfect evening to a perfect day. Barely a wisp of cloud in the sky. Still hot for climbing. I stopped every 15-20 mins to cool down, gather my breath and admire the view. There was much to admire, with the Cumbrian Lakeland fells to my left and the Pennines to my right. Ahead of me the road snaked away through the fells. Several cars, normally driven at speed, swept past. One lone cyclist passed me and then, just before the summit lay-by did a u-turn and swept back in the direction of Kendal. Not a word uttered. I crested the hill and let gravity do the rest. Shap village basking in the late evening sun, then it was a quick loop around Penrith and an evening refuelling at the last petrol station.

A short final burst up the A6 and I turned off, right and to the east plunging down into the Eden valley just as dusk turned to night. A clamber up to Castle Carrock where I was overtaken by a night-harvesting mega-combine lit up like a space-ship. I swallowed a handful of chocolate-coated coffee beans to keep the phantoms away from the roadside. A fine descent into the Brampton and then up past Lannercost Priory  and a clamber up onto the ridge and the line of Hadrian’s Wall. The views across the Irthing were fine. Twinkiling hamlets. The odd vehicle. The last train from Carlisle to Newcastle. It was so quiet and calm and pitch-black. I joined the Military Road which is notorious for its rolling nature as it sweeps over the moors like a fairground ride. After Greenhead I had to dismount and walk up the steep hill that I’d swept down only a few weeks earlier on Andy Berne’s C2C2C 300k audax. My feet were sore and I shuffled rather than walked up the hill. I was getting near the end now, but it was still a long way when I thought of the remaining hills. I had a deadline of 05:17 to reach my end point and I knew that it was going to be close. With the hills and the heat the broom-waggon rider was never too far from my back. A few trucks went sailing past me. Each had a full complement of spotlights as they swept past they lit up the bleak moorland around me.

Once Brewed, another hostel I’d stayed in an age ago, and I was starting to head south towards the Tyne Valley, snaking my way past Vindolanda fort. Some more walking and then the ground fell away – a long, straight single-track road that fell down the valley through Newbrough and Fourstones and then across the A69 to Hexham. I was now in a reverie. Some other legs turning the pedals as I passed through the last few towns before reaching Blaydon and my bed waiting in the Travelodge. I checked my watch. It was 04:49 – just 28 minutes before my cut-off time. Once again, I had completed the ride just ahead of the ghost rider. I closed the door, switched on the shower, and washed away the grit. Another long hot day had seen me cover 317km and 2.8km in just over 19 hours at 16.6 km/h. Fortunately I’d paid the extra tenner to be able to rest until 2pm before I had to check-out.

River Tyne at Blaydon

The full stats are: 919.21km travelled, 9437 m climbed, 53:14 moving time, 67:49 elapsed time


5 positive things that the plague brought us

A British perspective

  1. A massive reduction in traffic

Who would have thought in those distant days of Greta Thunberg and climate activists that we would now emerge into a world almost devoid of traffic? The skies that were filled with the deafening screech of jet engines, the dull roar of passing planes, the throbbing and whining of helicopters, and the annoying insect-like whine of small planes, are now filled with nothing more than clouds, sky, occasionally sun, and lots and lots of birds. Some days you can even see the pale outline of the moon.

And then there are the roads, streets and highways. As 2020 got off to a roaring start and winter turned into spring they were just as solid with congestion as they’d been for as long as most of us can remember. And then Covid-19 happened. Now, in the UK at least, you would have to go back to 1955 to find comparable traffic volumes.

All of this non-driving has caused oil prices to plummet, airlines to ground their entire fleets and plead for eyewatering rescue packages and car batteries to slowly to flat where they were parked. The climate activists are ecstatic, right? 

2. Fresh air

And all of this non-pollution has led to another new phenomenon – clean air. Who would have thought at the start of this year that we would find ourselves in a world with air that is so clear that you could see distant mountains and hills from major city centres? That you could see far off horizons through crystal clear air. As the haze and smog slowly lifted from our streets and pollution dropped to new lows, a change in the light and brightness of scenes long-familiar to us became noticeable.  

3. An appreciation of nature

And then the blossoms came out and flowers graced our green places. Birds were joined by other curious creatures trying to work out what had happened to all the crazy people: rabbits, deer, goats and sheep wandering though village and town centres. In other parts of the world lions have basked in the sun on deserted and dusty main highways, wild boars have snuffled through city streets and wildlife in general have just stretched out their territories to include those we used to occupy.

People actually came out of their homes to smell the flowers, to marvel at how fresh and fragrant the tree blossoms seemed. As you might expect they took lots of selfies and posted them on social media – “wow, like real blossoms!”, “awesome flower display”, “omg – just listen to this blackbird singing – I looked it up on an app!” And the birds really did seem to be singing like never before. Unrestrained from dawn to dusk they trilled and chirruped, tweeted and croaked, cooed and quacked. Had the air ever been so full of birdsong before? If so, I don’t remember it.

4. An urgent desire to exercise out of doors

And so people started to get out and about in this wonderful new world – at least those that weren’t in total lockdown. Gingerly at first, they that had short jogs, brief walks and cycled maybe a bit longer than they should (for cyclists as a rule never seem to obey rules) before whizzing back to the safety of their homes. Those who couldn’t get out made assault courses in their kitchens or climbed around fixtures and fittings like frisky kittens. Some were lucky enough to own exercise machines or bought some before they all ran out of stock. But outdoors was the place to be. As the lockdown continued and the plague raged throughout the land, parks, paths and riversides were filled with the sound of gravel being scrunched under hot feet, and people struggling to breath tried not to cough behind their overly specified face-masks. On the lanes and roads we went back to Blyton-esque scenes of jolly cyclists wobbling their way up the hills on machines that had been recently retrieved from sheds after many years of neglect, or hurriedly purchased in a fit of panic-buying at a cycling outlet. No matter the under-inflated tyres, the saddle way too low or the lack of cycling efficiency. Cycling had gone mainstream and the regular cyclists looked on with a mixture of bemusement and snootiness – which is fairly typical for those wearing carefully matching lyra outfits.

5. A need to reconnect to ourselves and to each other

But above all was the new-found bonhomie.  Initially, people who hadn’t stopped to utter a word to people in their street actually broke open a smile, and, perhaps a few weeks later an exclamation, such as “What lovely flowers! Did you grow them yourself?”

While performing a rather stiff jig to pass someone on the pavement you could almost hear a sound like an enthusiastic sigh from behind a mask, rather like a dentist might make when locating a painful abscess.

Over time the smiles, kindly and knowing looks and hand gestures increased and, at least in England, people were behaving like they do in more southern climes: dancing in the street, yoga exercising on the pavement and showing newfound affection for each other – all while being very socially distant.

While people were connecting with each other more openly they were also getting to know themselves better too. Mindfulness, wellbeing and self-therapy went mainstream. Online wellness forums reached record numbers of new clients seeking to learn how to stay grounded, to appreciate what they hadn’t appreciated before, and to get a lot more connected to everything around them: like listening to nature and breathing in the fresh air – and who could blame them?

So, in a matter of a couple of months we have basically we have ended up living in a world as pure as an environmental-activists wet dream. The question for all of us now is whether we want things to remain like this or whether we want to go back to the way things were before this plague came along and opened up our senses, ourselves and our hearts to a world of new possibilities. I know which world I would choose.

How about you?


More of the same, sir?

And when all this is over,
Will we just close the car door to that reassuring clunk,
And join the endless stream of tail-lights into the bright neon night;
And numberless jets leave vapour-trails across the hazy skies;
And sickening pangolins and bats lie twitching in the sterilized luggage holds?
"Bloody well hope so!", breathed the billionaires bilious breath -
("Cabin crew prepare for landing")
"More of the same, sir?"



Don’t you just love it when you stumble upon two things and they seem to connect? Sharing with you an old poem which was introduced to me by Poem-a-Day – it you’ve not yet subscribed I urge you to do so immediately, for we need the light of poetry in our lives as much as bread and water these days; and also an inscription I stumbled across in a nook in an quiet English country churchyard.

The Rainbow
by Effie Waller Smith
Love is a rainbow that appears 
When heaven’s sunshine lights earth’s tears. 
All varied colors of the light 
Within its beauteous arch unite: 
There Passion’s glowing crimson hue 
Burns near Truth’s rich and deathless blue;
And Jealousy’s green lights unfold 
‘Mid Pleasure’s tints of flame and gold. 
O dark life’s stormy sky would seem, 
If love’s clear rainbow did not gleam!

This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on April 11, 2020 by the Academy of American Poets. 


Never had I seen bluebells as I'd seen that year -
Way up Ladder Hill, the first turn - you'd have known the way.
Like a carpet spread as far as the eye could see,
Whilst new leaves came upon each tree.
The light
The dappled light
Softly shaded below the evening sun
The sweetest sight you'd ever have seen -
A rich spread of purple bells,
And the air still, but for the sound
Of unburdened birds,
And the gentle woosh of supple swaying bowers.

Returning home the blossom petals
Falling like silent tears
Reminded me that you'd never seen the bluebells
The finest of all our years

Lament Upon An English Country Churchyard

Here, in this English country churchyard
Let us rest for a while.
Upon the earth,
From which we ...
Unto which we ...
Silent now,
Save the droning of the bumble bee,
Drunk upon the abundance of blossom,
Blooming over the socially-distanced plots -
As it the fallen might catch a fever.

Let us rest and remember,
Lest we forget, long ago -
For we have been here before.
This too will cease -
The year of the plague falling like the leaves,
Upon graves old and new,
Upon the earth freshly lain.

Then let the rain
Wash away our tears.
Then let the old bells peal once more
Chiming over the misty vale.
Then let us hold up our heads, as we read:

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, 
I will fear no evil; 
For You are with me; 
Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.

Here, in this English churchyard
Let us rest for a while.


Non-essential Travel

A Faithful Account of the Condors Virtual Easter Arrow 2020

At the height of the COVID-19 lockdown in the UK, Bob Donaldson let his imagination run away with him and imagined the audax Easter Arrow that was planned to be over the long, hot Easter weekend. The team was made up of three members of Cowley Road Condors Audax Club (which is based in Oxford), and Arrow newbies: Liz Bruton, Arne Wolters, and Richard Horton, and former work colleague of Bob’s, Tom Perry (who had taken part in both LEL and a previous Arrow in 2018).

We met at Oxford station just before eight. Overnight there had been some rain and the roads were still a little wet, but the air was fresh and clear, and the blue sky had only a few clouds moving along in an easterly direction.

Tom was his usual cheerful self and had a new set of wheels – an S-Works Tarmac with very little additional baggage. It looked as light as it was. Liz had the Bob Jackson she’d been riding when I met her earlier in the year on the Poor Student – downshifters, Brooks B17, steel frame. Way up on the cool ratings. Arne, the Dutchman, towered over the rest of us and had the sort of firm handshake that could crush bone. I’d only met him once before while crossing the Severn Bridge on The Dean. He was a seriously strong rider and had selected an ali GT Grade with handlebar bag, saddle bag, frame bag and snack pouches. He looked like he’d come prepared for The Transcontinental, but pointed out that he was in training for the Race Around the Netherlands and planned to ride back to make the round route up to 1000km. I’d never met Richard before, but he struck me as an amiable guy who looked well-prepared for the next 24-hours. He was riding his one and only bike, a Kinesis T3 aluminium frame equipped with hand-made wheels from Spa Cycles, Brooks saddle and a Carradice bag. I was riding my main audax machine – a 2018 Flying Gate, with which I’d successfully completed PBP the previous year. I’d brought along my handlebar bag in addition to the one I carried on my rear rack, as experience had taught me that it was well to come prepared for an Arrow.

The Easter Arrow is a very special event which is ridden as a team of 3-5 machines. As most people ride either a bicycle or a tricycle this equates to 3-5 people. Tandems afford greater numbers for those dark, cold overnight hours. The team must ride a minimum of 360km with no maximum distance – for this is essentially a 24-hour team time-trial (although the team must declare their intended position during the 22nd hour when submitting their entries to the organiser, Andy Uttley). The team organizer plots a route which must include controls and be pre-validated to ensure that it meets the required length. The arrival times at each control are recorded in a brevet card along with a receipt to confirm the time of arrival.

The route I’d suggested was the route that I’d successfully completed in 2016 when I rode with Stephen Rogers, Ben Hudson, David Smethurst and young Adam Clark, and was 409km in length – 4km shorter than the original after a couple of tweaks to avoid main roads.

After getting our first receipt we headed out of Oxford centre and clambered up Headington Hill following the cycle route towards Wheatley. Then we switched onto country lanes that would have been familiar to anyone who had ridden The Four Minute Mile as we set out for Long Crendon, then swept over a few rollers as we kissed the Chiltern Hills (the views were magnificent and the air bursting with all of the sounds of Spring), before sweeping down to cross the busy Aylesbury Road after skirting around Waddesdon Manor (one of several mansions owned by the Rothschilds – bankers to royals, governments and the super-rich the world over).

The next leg, to Whitchurch, gave us an opportunity to enjoy some more fine Chiltern scenery. The first of the new leaves were beginning to unfurl in the hedgerows and blossoms were in their abundance, as bumblebees drunk with pollen wove among them. A gentle south-westerly breeze pushed us along. We were starting to get warm beneath the rising sun and pulled over to take off some layers and reveal a flash of white skin.

We swept passed the fine farm shop I sometimes call into and swooped and climbed over a few more hills and then into Stewkley. Just before Stewkley, and after Cublington is a little coppice on the right – a memorial to the airfield that used to be on the right of this road. If you look closely you can still see evidence of the old domed hangers now used for farm supplies. One of many airfields in this part of the country.

Now we are up on a ridge with fine views all around. We are making good time and conversation opens up. The sun brightens the spirits and the stories start to do the rounds. Other audaxes. Other audaxers. Comments and questions about Liz’s Bob Jackson and my own Flying Gate.

The miles tick by and we are soon swooping down to cross the Stoke Hammond bypass, the West Coast mainline, the old Stoke Road and the Grand Union canal, by The Three Locks pub. At this point someone normally refers to how good the food is in the pub (for we are all starting to get a bit peckish). The canal joins the capital with Birmingham and has numerous junctions to other canals and branches. Before the railways came it was the main artery of the country carrying a wide assortment of goods. Today it’s a popular haunt of walkers and boaters.

Now we clamber up towards Great Brickhill. It’s a tasty climb and at the top is a pleasant village with a central shelter where we once fettled Tom’s bottom bracket on an earlier and unsuccessful Arrow (the team then comprising Stephen Rogers, Ben Hudson, Vicky Lawson from Didcot Phoenix, Tom, and yours truly). On that occasion the weather turned cold and wet after reaching St Ives and we didn’t get too much further before it was more than a puncture that deflated the spirits and the hypothermia started to set in. We retreated to Peterborough station dripping and shaking uncontrollably!

Our route led further up the hill towards Little Brickhill which hugs the side of the old A5 or Watling Street as it is more properly known. Where the old garage used to stand, some luxury homes have now been built. We cross the new A5, ignore the signpost indicating The Greensand Way cycle-route, and cut through the woods bordering the vast estates of Woburn Abbey, seat of the Duke of Bedford, who owns pretty much all of this surrounding land. After a short bite to eat at our first control, the humble convenience store with the picnic table outside, we cross the vast deer park catching sight of a herd some distance off, where the for the eighteenth-century mansion lies hidden from view, over the rubble of the former twelfth-century abbey from which it took its name.

 Up and over one of the few remaining hills on this carefully crafted Arrow and over the cattle grid where we suffer our first mechanical – a pinch flat on Tom’s rear. Spotting my metal tyre-levers he declines my offer of help and struggles for the best part of 20 minutes to grapple with his tyre which appeared to be surgically attached to his rather classy deep-rimmed carbon rims. Queue the inevitable discussion around tubeless versus clinchers, tyre pressure and rolling resistance – a way to wile away the time while checking out Tom’s repair technique. Meanwhile Richard shares around some classy energy bars made by veloforte (#fuelbetter). Mmmmm

But it’s a fine day with only the odd fleeting cloud floating over the Bedfordshire landscape as we set off again in a north-easterly direction. After a short while we are in the thrum of Ampthill, passing the café I often use when riding this route on my annual pilgrimage to the Cambridge Autumnal – one of my favourite calendar-events of the year, which I make a long-weekend of – cycling back on the Sunday. It’s an event that seems to wrap-up the summer, if not the audax season – Framlingham’s classy Bakers café and bakery, with its sumptuous leather sofas and, at the end of the journey, Ewa’s delicious soup and homemade cakes well worth the trip.

A few lanes later and we pass the majestic grounds of Haynes Park which dominates the landscape to our left. A subtle change in landscape as we seem to come off the hills and find ourselves among a slow moving convey of misty-eyed mechanics trundling along the roads of their steam-driven contraptions puttering and rumbling along the narrow lanes at about 5mph. Richard is keen to stop and take a few photos, and I join him, enjoying nothing more than to marvel at the raw natural power of those dinosaurs of the first industrial revolution. Arne starts looking a bit edgy, so we resume our ride having slipped under a railway bridge that once carried the original Varsity line. I wanted to mention this to the others, but they have paced on ahead with Arne leading the charge. We get a good train going along the flattened lanes that take us across the A1 and into Sandy. A small diversion takes us over a railway bridge over the East Coast main line and up a heavily rutted road through fine woodland. Bluebells are in evidence as we join the road to Everton which has, I can’t help noticing, a fine wooden bus shelter.

Now we enter Cambridgeshire and surge towards Gamlingay and a host of villages that appear in quick succession (more bus shelters noted), crossing, as we do, the route of the 2017 LEL near Bourn. Eventually even Tom joins the cycle-path that leads us to our first major milestone – that fine city of Cambridge (although not quite as fine as Oxford, we agree) and our first proper meal. Being Good Friday, regular pubs and cafes can be a bit hit and miss. I’d therefore planned for us to visit the Weatherspoons in the old Regal Cinema. It was, as always, packed with punters. Liz secured a seat near the rear (where we’d parked our bikes) and the plates of Full English soon followed washed down with copious amounts of refills of tea and coffee.

At this point we are comfortably within schedule and an air of bonhomie enters the camp. As we get up to leave, we spot another team weaving between the drinkers and heading for the bar. Among them I spot David Smethurst (part of the 2016 Arrow Team), Geordie Johnson, Andrew Preston, Judith Swallow and Adam Watkins – an unlikely combo of seasoned southern audaxers who had set off at the crack of dawn from the south coast and were making a beeline for York via a chain of Weatherspoons. Using an app they had already pre-ordered their meals and wasted no time in tucking in to the same, shaving valuable minutes off their effort as they did so. Meanwhile the whole event was being captured for later YouTube consumption by Adam’s cam – this was audaxing for the new era.

Our route out of Cambridge takes us over the Cam where the other sort of punters, punt their punts in the afternoon sun. They are watched by ice-cream eating tourists and selfie-takers oblivious to our progress as we weave around them. Along Histon Road and over the A14 and we are soon onto the busway that follows the route of an old railway line. While this offers few points of interest, it makes a beeline for St Ives where we locate our next control at the Waitrose. This lifts Liz’s spirits significantly. Being vegan and highly principled, the Weatherspoons experience had been a bit of a low point for her (although I was surprised to learn how extensive their vegan and vegetarian options were, including the Beyond BurgerTM). After drifting around the aisles, we all emerged with something with which to itemise our receipts. I noticed Liz stuffing a couple of packs of vegetable samosas into her Carradice – emergency rations for the dark hours that lay ahead. I stuck to my promise and handed everyone a Cadbury’s Crème Egg to mark the first 100km of the ride (even though we had done over 150k by this point).

Our target time for St Ives had been around 5pm, but it was now only 3:30 thanks to the tailwind and the great teamwork out on the road. What was more, the climbing was now behind us with little more than a pimple to climb at Lincoln, all we had to do now was coast along for the next 16 ½ hours. What could possibly go wrong?

The land flattens out considerably after St Ives making the sky seem to reach right down to the earth and fill the vista with unimaginably wide horizons. Desperately dreary places like Chatteris and March (where we obtained a control receipt in the Tesco petrol station) come and go, offering fleeting respite from the monotony of the wide, expansive and heavily industrially-agricultured land that dominates this part of the country. Our flying Dutchman exclaimed how lovely this area was and how much it reminded him of the area he grew up in, and how much he looked forward to cycling in the Race Around the Netherlands – a 1900km challenge that goes under the abbreviation of RAtN.

Just before sunset, of what had been a glorious day, and after crossing the Welland, a brief, and unexpected downpour featuring both heavy rain and giant hailstones forced us over to the side of the road to hastily don waterproofs. Lasting little more than 15 minutes it nevertheless gave as a good chilling soak and turned the road a little icy. We were very glad, once again, to find ourselves in another Weatherspoons (the Moon Under Water) in Boston to get dried out, warmed up and refuelled for the night ahead.

As we began to groan from the vast calorific intake who should we spot but some be-caped audaxers from Audax Club Hackney – among them Tom Solesse (of Steam Ride renown, and more recently, organiser of The Dean), Jim Cope and Justin Jones. These urban hipsters frequently sporting liberal sproutings of facial hair can often be detected by their distinctive livery – a black jersey with a massive, multicoloured HACKNEY spelt out in retro-rainbow coloured lettering reminiscent the cover from “Now That’s What I Call Music 1975”.

We exchanged a few stories from the road, before Arne indicated that it was time to head out into the evening air. The light had completely drained from the sky which was clear, starlit and cloudless. Once away from the hubbub of Boston, the air grew considerably cooler and the darkness wrapped around us. We entered our own little bubble spinning along through the Lincolnshire countryside. The wind which had blown us all the way to Boston had blown itself out in the hailstorm, and now the air was still and calm allowing our thoughts to float like moths through the night air.

It was Tom who broke the spell as he recalled that Boston reminded him of LEL in 2017. After straying off route, and falling off in the middle of a treacherous ford, he had seen most of his valuables float off down stream as he lay stricken, awaiting an air ambulance which flew him to Boston hospital and an unscheduled two week stay while his broken hip recovered from hip-replacement surgery. It had taken him six months to fully recover. Many people would have given up audaxing for good after suffering such distress. Tom bounced back and was looking forward to more suffering.

Perhaps the most challenging part of the Arrow using a relatively flat route, is killing time during the night sections. We only needed to travel at 17km per hour (including stops) to keep on schedule, but under benign skies and gentle rolling terrain there’s little effort required to coast along at a comfortable pace. This means that at night you cool down and, without sufficient layers on, that can become a chilly problem. The alternative method is to ride more quickly between controls and kill time at the controls. As Tom had decided to travel light (and his teeth started chattering while Richard pulled on his Lowe alpine synthetic belay jacket, woolly hat and spare gloves, we opted for the latter approach.

Across the fenland we went, passing signposts to unlikely-sounding places like Anton’s Gowt, the charmingly named Dogdyke near RAF Coningsby, and Timberland – presumably named after its rich, lush forest – joke! After the excitement of reaching Metheringham had passed (or was that just the twitchy feeling of crossing the railway crossing at an acute angle? – easy there, Tom!), a strange sensation crept into our consciousness. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, we were climbing. This was duly noted by Tom’s chain which took the opportunity to part company with his bike just few miles before we reached Lincoln. It took us the best part of 5 minutes and the beam from Richard’s Petzl headtorch to find it again among the roadside gravel (no doubt trying to make an escape into the long grass).

Although Tom came equipped with neither a quick-link nor a chainlink tool, Liz, who carries a mobile workshop in her saddle bag (including, we noted, spare mudguard bolts), and doesn’t even have an 11-speed chain on her bike, nevertheless had the correct spare link and proudly showed the boys how deftly she could reconnect the chain too.

While I offered the everyone another Cadbury’s Crème Egg (we had already covered 300k by this point), Arne reached for his boterkoek. This caused some infantile sniggering, and maybe even a little concern, until he revealed that they were nothing more than Dutch biscuits with just the right amount of flour, sugar and butter. Like most things Dutch, they were perfect for cheering our spirits in the wee small hours.

Rechained and remounted we were soon over the lip of Canwick Hill and bombing passed the International Bomber Command Centre (a relatively recent museum which celebrates the roll Lincolnshire – also known as “Bomber County” – played in the Second World War, before legging it through the outskirts of Lincoln to the McDonalds near to the university.

Despite Tom’s latest mechanical, we were still an hour ahead of schedule and decided to linger a little longer over our meals amid the throng of drunken students. Richard picked upon the background music and it’s similarity to one of his favourite hard bop jazz tunes (I think it was Reggie of Chester), but I must have drifted off as the next thing I remember was seeing the face of audax legend, Steve Abraham, gurning at me as I jolted awake. He had joined up with a team that included Phil Whitehurst (who was riding his latest bent, and was the organiser of the Four Minute Mile, referred to earlier) and Nick Wilkinson from Cambridge (organiser of the previously mentioned Cambridge Autumnal), and Richard Lake (who was busily vlogging into his camera). Somewhere along the route they’d lost one member of their team to suspected food poisoning. We chatted for a while about various dodgy audax foods we’d eaten and lived to tell the tale, when Arne reminded us, with inimitable Dutch efficiency, that we ought to press on.

It was only 30km further to Gainsborough and it didn’t take us very long, it seemed, to get ahead of schedule again and arrive before the 3am target time. Here the Jet petrol station provided the setting for our brief pause. We had reached that point in the ride where nobody really wants anything to eat, but chews on whatever seems appropriate anyway. The guy behind the till allowed us to loiter in his shop while we slowly sipped our coffees and responded to his various queries. Was some special cycling event going on tonight, he wondered? Richard joked that it was an Easter egg hunt and we were trawling the country in search of mini-eggs. He helpfully pointed to a stack of them by the till and each of us obligingly bought a pack, before bidding our farewells.

This part of the country suffers badly from flooding, being either on the Trent, Don, or their various tributaries, and was once again rather flat and featureless. It was thus that we noted a signpost to Fishlake that had made the news earlier in the year because it had turned into an actual fish lake, which seemed to surprise many of the residents. We ticked slowly along while Liz told us about how wonderful it was to cycle in Ireland, particularly those from the northern province from where she hailed, and how she was looking forward to riding the epic that is the Wild Atlantic Way Audax which weighs in at a mere 2,300km. Arne tried to enthuse us about cycling around his own country. Did I mention that he was treating the Arrow as a warm up ride? I sensed from Richard and Tom’s silence that such adventures were far from their thoughts (or maybe they’d entered the dozzies?)

Being nestled in a neat loop formed by the M18 and M180, Thorpe was probably always destined to be home to the twilight zone. We rolled into town shortly after four and were spoilt for choice – a Jet garage or a McDonalds. Having time in hand we opted for the latter, which had a steady trickle of van drivers calling in for an early breakfast or perhaps a late supper. We were all feeling a little dazed, and so it was quite a relief when Arne opened up about his squirrel called Nuts, after Liz had asked him why he had a toy rat dangling from his aerobars. I’ve never been big on lucky charms myself, although I did once carry a St Christopher around my neck until I came off one cold winter’s night. Smacking my head earthwards on icy tarmac I was too dazed by the floating stars to notice that it had become disconnected from my person. Liz, to no one’s surprise, carried a four-leaf clover, and Richard mentioned that he always carried a pebble that he’s secured while scaling up Snowdon in a blizzard when he was into mountaineering. Tom neither carried a lucky charm and thought it all a load of nonsense. Thus spurned, Arne put his Nuts away.

We lapsed into silence again until a chill blast signalled that the door had been opened again revealing a group from VC 167. These hardened Northerners were frequently to be found near, if not at the top of the club points leader-board, and evoked awe among all they encountered. I recognised Aiden Headley beneath his distinctive cap (out on his trike), Anne Young and Cat Archer. Cat had managed to get around PBP within time, despite suffering from severe stomach problems – which neatly encapsulated the spirit of VC 167). They’d set off from Newcastle the best part of a day ago and had been riding around in ever decreasing circles around the north of England ever since, harvesting on McDonalds as they went – this was to be their sixth, or was that seventh?

We decided to bid them farewell and set out again to a noticeable lighter sky. The last stars were fading fast as the eastern sky glowed a faint shade of orange. Our spirits lifted as we got back into our stride and pointed north over the M18, then shortly after the M62 and, as the sun broke on the horizon over the Drax Power Station, a sight welling up of tears to the eyes (or was it just some coal dust?) – we were emerging into the North Proper.

Just after the A63 roundabout, before Selby, we found the 22-hour control at, you’ve already guessed, the McDonalds. Richard discovered some rather squashed hot cross buns in his rear pocket and offered them around to no takers. Liz had a couple of samosas she offered, but to no interest. Even Arne’s remaining Boterkoeks didn’t inspire any interest. And then I remembered that there was still the hoard of Crème Eggs. Slightly squashed they went down a treat with the bitter coffee giving us the final kick we needed for the final 26kms to York. We crossed the Ouse at pretty Cawood, and joined the cycle track just after Naburn. After a short spin on the gritty track we made it to the Tadcaster Road, passing the racecourse on our right, and pulled up right outside The Punch Bowl pub, which had bikes strewn all around it. It was just before 8am. We were overjoyed to have completed the ride in the prescribed 24 hours without major incident – high fives all around! The weather had been near-perfect and we were all in high spirits if not a little tired. By the time I’d locked my bike Liz had already ordered in a round. The bar was full of cyclists exchanging stories from another Easter Arrow successfully completed.

Here were those we’d met on the road and more. There was a team or two from Bristol who had chosen to ride the whole way on fixies – Jon Banks, Paul Rainbow and Eleanor Jaskowska among them. Also cycling up from Bristol were a team of tough wheelers in the form of Lee Killestein, Ivor Peachey, Ian Fairweather, Kevin Talbot, and Ricki Goode. They’d selected the route with the most climbing just for fun and were now onto their third round and in very high spirits.

But our greatest surprise was yet to come. Who should walk in the door in a shock of Condor’s pink but Cheryl Reid, with young William Ray, Barbara Wyatt, Will Parker and Kat Young in tow. They’d secretly formed another team from Cowley Road Condors and had tailed us all the whole way from Oxford!

After enormous Full English breakfasts, the Condors waved Arne off on his 600km return leg before going back inside for another round.


When I awoke on the train, sometime later, I saw a flash of uniform and the sound of a metallic voice crackle my name at the other end of what appeared to be a walkie-talkie

“Been enjoying ourselves then have we, sir?” I rubbed my eyes. The policeman appeared to be addressing me as I appeared to be the only person in the carriage.

“A nice little bike ride to York, was it?” intoned his colleague.

The tones were friendly but firm with a hint of menace about them.

“O yes”, I replied. “We rode for 24-hours day and night and ….”

“Now listen here, sir”, the tone of the first officer had hardened. “The thing is this. We’re arresting you for non-essential travel. You don’t have to say anything, but anything you do say…..”


I woke in a sweat with a start. My hard was pounding and I was breathing heavily, as if I’d just ran up the stairs.

“What is it, darling?”

“Err, it’s nothing, it’s just I was having this long audax ride and met everyone on the way and then, well, I was on the train and then. And then I was just about to.”

“About to what?” 

“Are we still in lockdown, dear?”


Getting Yoga Done, Part 2

A series of reflections from a complete yoga novice

Breathing in

Read Part 1 here

I did this session a few times more, and then something fortuitous happened. At work the old print-room had been converted into a Wellbeing Room. Where a couple of staff had once sweated over photocopying machines and binders, newer and significantly younger employees now sweated during lunchtime breaks throughout various wellbeing activities. By chance, a yoga taster session was taking place and I decided to sign-up.

The instructor, Colin, wasn’t quite as softly spoken as Adriene, and he also had some more challenging moves in his repertoire. Running a boot camp as well as palates classes I found that his yoga classes involved more muscular strength and good balancing skills. I quickly realized that I had neither of these things – particularly in my upper body – and was prone to toppling over when requested to raise a leg or even a knee. I’d thought that with all of my cycling my balance would be near-perfect (although those who have cycled alongside me may think otherwise), but this was far from the case.

Colin calmly mentioned that there were lots of videos on YouTube where I could practice the moves. I decided to keep my powder dry and not mention my new YouTube viewing at this stage. I went back to my carpet earth before my TV, lifted up my heart above my pelvis, and tried ever so hard to stay grounded. “You can do this”, intoned Adriene, “I have your back” (and you know I could almost feel her gentle yet firm hand in the small of my back). And my favourite, “That was awesome – good work”.

And so, I came back to work and signed up for Colin’s course and blocked out an hour each Thursday lunchtime in my calendar. I was going to “Get Yoga Done”. In the evenings and at weekends I found myself gravitating towards Adriene’s videos of which there appeared to be thousands. More yoga than I could ever imagine doing in my whole life – or at least what remained of it.

And then an even more amazing thing happened! Adriene announced that she was doing a 30-day workout starting 1st January. Was I in? You bet.

Since realising that breathing was a fairly fundamental aspect of yoga – Adriene (although not Colin) would actually spend maybe five minutes at the start of some of her videos just lying on the floor and breathing – “Breathe in, all the way in, in through your nose”. My nose? Are you serious? “And all the way out – big lion’s breath – rooaar!” I coughed as my lungs trembled beneath my ribs at the unexpected urgency of respiration. This can’t be right, surely?

I went to the doctor and persuaded her to give me the stronger purple inhaler back again and some of those nose-drops that could even clear a blocked drain. I practiced breathing through my nose – often with just one nostril open for business. It was really hard to remember to breath through my reluctant nostril and it didn’t feel right, but I persevered. Did I mention I also trimmed out the fulsome and greying hairs?

By the end of 2019 I was able to make a rather snotty whistling inhalation of air and also lie on the carpet. I felt that I was starting to master this yoga malarkey and felt, by the slight ache in my chest, that I may also have grown a new muscle (but I couldn’t be totally sure).

Find out more about Yoga with Adriene


British Summer Time MMXX

When the petals fall
We will gnash our teeth and wail
Falling like confetti 
Into freshly hewn coffins

Silenced. The vapour-streaked skies
Returned once more to the drone of flies,
The staccato cries of seagulls,
The lengthening rays of warmer days

On the hot earth
The scampering paws will barely pause
To the sound of lamentations
To those fallen before their time

When the fruits fall beneath the rustling leaves
Will we pause and bow before the plentiful earth,
And be minded of the harvested sheaves
The silent reaper bequeaths?

The book of condolences
Lies open among the fallen leaves -
Might that the worms take our offering.
Upon Remembrance may we remember
Our place in the natural order of things.
As it was in the beginning,
And shall forever be,
World without end.


Getting Yoga Done, Part 1

A series of reflections from a complete yoga novice

Getting grounded on earth

Being a reasonably hardened cyclist with some hefty long-distance rides under my belt I felt reasonably confident that I’d find yoga pretty easy.

After flicking through a number of videos on YouTube I settled on one called “Yoga for cyclists” by a chirpy American lady called Adriene.

To my surprise, I discovered that I was as stiff as a board. One of the basic opening moves involved sitting cross-legged on the ground (or earth as Adrienne insisted on referring to general-purpose flooring). When I was five, I remember sitting cross-legged a lot. It was something all of the children in the class had to do while listening to the teacher read a story. I’m pretty certain that, being a skinny waif-like child, even at that tender age I found this form of sitting deeply discomforting. How could you even begin to feel calm and breath deeply when your butt felt benumbed and your knees, some 50-years later, couldn’t actually cross-over? Getting out of this first position was tough enough as I struggled to unwrap my legs and fall sideways towards the earth (which I will hitherto refer to as “carpet”).

But it turned out that the knees were in for a tough time. They were pressed against the carpet while I adopted some sort of dog pose. They were ground into the carpet as I tried to make a child pose. A child-pose! I might have been two or three when I last did that movement. My innards were being compressed between my knees and my ribs and I wasn’t sure if I even had space to breathe in the little space that remained. And yet breathe I must. “Breath through your nose”, intoned the cheery Adrienne. My nose? I hadn’t breathed through my nose properly for several years – at least not enough to draw in enough air to expand my lungs. And besides, my nostrils were totally blocked and I couldn’t breathe through them even if I’d wanted to.

I should mention at this point that I’ve had major sinus problems for years and suffer from perennial rhinitis for which I take allergy tablets daily and occasionally nose drops.

The breathing bit was clearly going to have to wait for another day – just trying to get my limbs, joints and muscles to make basic yoga shapes was more than enough to focus on without having to worry about breathing.

Eventually the session came to an end and Adriene whispered rather quickly “Have a nice day”, which was very American I thought, because American’s always wish you that even if they don’t really mean it. However, in Adrienne’s case I sensed something very sincere and genuine, and I quietly whispered “Have a nice day” back, before staggering up off the earth to flop on the sofa and switch on some TV.

Find out more about Yoga with Adriene

Read more here


Daffodils on St David-19’s Day

After storms and floods
From all man's ills
I rest from howling gale
Beside sweet daffodils

Fair the light this David's Day
They bend their heads as if in prayer
And take a moment to reflect
The monk who refrained from ale and meat

From flesh came this plague that sweeps the Earth
And to all our fears has given birth
While tides are rising and locusts swarm
We can't deny it's getting warm
And know that this is not the norm

Business as usual can't continue
When they lie on the news and mop their ague
One could argue that it's time for change
For climate change and social change
From the broken neoliberal

Let us bow our heads
Like the humble daffodil
And acknowledge in our hearts
That we've all had our fill