A Journey to the back of the fridge

I arrived at His Grace's residence at about 0840 hours, which is not a civilised time on a Saturday morning, and put my bike together. A certain A Crooks of this parish turned up shortly before nine, with a bunch of other hospital people. I went up to sign on, and not knowing how long it would take A Crooks to get her act together, put myself down for a 0920 start.

Let's give credit where it's due. The organisation both by the Duke's lackeys and retainers, and by the Tear Fund volunteers, was magnificent. Four of the castle staff were out marshalling cars into the car parks (for which those of us who were riding were not charged); others were helping organise children's mountain bike racing and other activities to entertain the masses. The Tear Fund volunteers were meantime checking us in and organising start times. And Rik's Bike Shed mob were getting out the penny farthings and other bikes from the museum, and also a weird and wonderful collection of funny bikes.

Nevertheless, standing around waiting to start was cold cold cold cold cold.

Cycling in Scotland in early summer... I'd paid attention to the weather forcast, of course. With deep skepticism, of course. It was grey and chill, but the cloud was going to 'burn off', after which it was going to be 'very hot'. So I was wearing a thin jersey, with a windproof gilet over it, a buff, and a cap. In my back pocket I had a very lightweight windproof jacket. I hoped, of course, to take the gilet and the buff off...

A Crooks, of this parish, soon arrived, saying that A Crooks of this parish would turn up later and set off about 1000. 0920 duly rolled round, and the time keeper gave us our start. We headed off in a bunch with a group of Border City Wheelers, who quickly whipped past us and vanished into the distance. We rolled along at a reasonable pace; A Crooks having gone over the handlebars of her mountain bike a couple of days before and feeling a bit battered and bruised, and me very aware of the climbs to come.

We were routed up the west bank of the Nith to north of Sanquhar, which seemed a bit unnecessary; presumably Dave Moss, who organised the route, didn't want us turning right off the A76. But upper Nithsdale is pleasant - if scenic - cycling country, and we rolled along pleasantly, and soon past the site of my big crash of eighteen months ago. Despite the fact that there were 190-odd other riders on this ride, by this time we were on our own, and for a long time saw no other cyclists. We passed a couple of the Border City boys mending a puncture, and ten minutes later they passed us again. But as we descended into Sanquhar we came up with a woman from Stirling Tri on a newish blue Trek (who had come south partly to ride the Sportif, and partly to buy her wedding ring!)

The downside of going up to Sanquhar on the west bank was that we now had to head back south down the A76, which is no-one's favourite cycling road: too much motor traffic going too fast, with sight lines which are too short. And, additionally, the head wind was very fresh. Never mind, I said cheerfully, this wind will probably help us up the Mennock...

A fast bunch, making a very efficient chain gang, whipped past us and out of sight. Then the Mennock Water turning came up, and we swung up the hill, saying farewell to the Stirling Tri woman. There's an initial climb which is quite stiff, followed by a gentle descent, and then the main climb goes up like a flight of stairs with short stiff sections interspersed with false flats. A Crooks and I stayed together for the first half of the climb, cheerfully discussing when A Crooks would come flying past, and what lies he would tell us about when he had started. The wind was bitter in our faces, and despite the gradient it was cold. Probably help us up the Mennock - ha!

Then after the second false flat the climb kicked up steeper, and my 39/26 bottom gear really wasn't low enough. A Crooks clicked down onto her granny ring and started to pull away. A guy from Dunfermline on a rather gorgeous Chorus-equipped Orbea came up with me, and we climbed together for a while, but as the gradient steepened further I knew I couldn't stay with him so I told him to go on. At which point a cheerful voice sang out from behind 'grab his wheel, Simon'. Whizz! Whirr! Blur! A Crooks went flying by, legs whirling, not even short of breath, and was gone. Bastard.

So, you know, climbing. We were starting on the last steep section, and I found my own rhythm. A bit earlier I had felt that I was winching myself up, grinding up, awkward on the bike; but now... I was still mostly out of the saddle, but I was pedalling circles again. Also, in this top col of the pass there was virtually no wind, and the sun was beginning to break through. I stuffed my cap in my pocket. I unzipped my gilet and my shirt. I took my buff off. The day was starting to feel good. The occasional eddy of breeze into the col was cold on my back, but... The guy on the Orbea was still in sight ahead, and so was A Crooks (no, not /that/ A Crooks, silly). What's more, I was gaining on her. Gradually, I hauled the distance back, came along side, and we climbed on together. Up ahead a couple had stopped. The twisting of the pass made it impossible to see how much more climbing there was, so as we came past we called out 'not far now! honest!'

And it wasn't far now. The notch appeared ahead. The gradient eased. The first buildings of Wanlockhead - Britain's highest village - came into sight. I zipped up my zips, rolled over the top, and poured down the hill. In the bottom of the dip in Wanlockhead, cyclists were gathered round a feed station, and we stopped. The traybakes were /extremely/ welcome (and delicious), but stopping in a dip was not, and as soon as I stopped I was aware of just how cold it still was. I got moving again, and then realised that A Crooks hadn't. I immediately felt guilty - club rules are that we don't leave people behind. But... the climb out of Wanlockhead is brutal, and I really didn't want to stop on it. So I ground my way up more slowly than I otherwise would. High on my right the radomes of the Green Lowther came into view, but we didn't have to go there. The highest point on our route was just ahead... reaching it, I touched a foot down to wait for A Crooks, but she was just behind me. We rolled over the top together, and started down.

The roads from Wanlockhead via Leadhills to Elvanfoot are odd. They're very high, and the surrounding landscape is extremely barren - the environmental wreckage left by three thousand miles of mining. But the road surface (in a curious red colour) is mostly extremely good; from the ridge above Wanlockhead through to Elvanfoot there's a descent from 468 metres to under 300 metres in 10Km; and the prevailing wind is in your favour. All of which makes it usually screamingly fast. And it was. Coming down towards Leadhills I was doing an easy - easy - 60Km/h, and faced with three young lambs in the middle of the road. I yelled, but they didn't move. I headed straight for them, waiting to see which way they would go. At the last moment they went left, so I went right, curling past them, only slowing as the road started to twist down into the village (where I still managed to light up the 'slow down' board at 37 mph). Brilliant. At the Elvanfoot turn I paused to wait for A so that she wouldn't shoot by it - an easy mistake to make which carries you down a long hill you then have to grind back up. Out of Leadhills the chap on the Orbea joined us again, and he and A climbed up past the ridiculous mountain golf course together. And yes, there were people out playing golf in their oxygen masks, hanging onto the hillside with pitons...

Consequently when we rolled over that top onto the twisty start of the descent, A and Mr Orbea were still ahead of me, descending in a responsible and orderly manner.

Well, that's nae fun.

As soon as I could see enough clear road I sang out 'on your right', and went for it, spinning the bike up to full speed and then crouching in behind the bars, making myself as small as possible, using every bit of the width of the road through the turns. Passing people. I may not be able to climb, but I can still descend...

The road flattened, but I was still holding 65Km/h. I should have been thinking then about what that meant. I wasn't, of course. I was just enjoying the speed, the sensation of almost flying, the smoothness and sureness of the bike. Eventually, at the top of a small brae, I paused to wait for A, and we rolled into Elvanfoot together. Some of A's colleagues were waiting at the turn to regroup, and called greetings as we came by. We turned through Elvanfoot and met the wind.

At the top of the Mennock the sun had been beginning to come out. It had begun to come out again at Leadhills. But now it had changed its mind, taken its hat off, and settled down by a warm fire with a good book. This just wasn't it's sort of weather.

Heading out of Elvanfoot towards Dalveen really isn't much of a climb, but it felt an awful grind. The wind was... well, not very strong. Force four, maybe, not more than that. But so cold. A's colleagues passed us, and we came up with, and passed, a gentleman on a beautiful white Holdsworth with a complete 70s vintage Campag Super Record groupset, and an enormous headlight mounted on a front carrier.

Cold. At the top of the brae I stopped and put every item of clothing I had with me on. The guy on the Holdsworth passed me as I was stopped. A had gone on ahead, and I thought I'd be able to make it back to her on the descent, but I'd reckoned without the wind. It was just brutal and miserable. I was shivering as I rode. Cyclists were strung out along the road in front of me and I began to pass a few (including the Holdsworth which was sadly crying 'oil me, oil me, oil me), but A remained resolutely about two hundred metres ahead. Just occasionally a couple of fast boys would come past doing at least 5Km/h better than me and gradually disappear into the distance...

Objectively, the road from Elvanfoot to the top of the Dalveen pass is not that tough. Overall, there's as much descending as climbing, and the gradients are trivial. And it really - objectively - isn't far. But by contrast to the Wanlockhead to Elvanfoot section which I almost always enjoy, the Elvanfoot to Dalveen section is very often misery, and so it was yesterday. Every metre a struggle, every kilometre grudgingly won. I began to feel very sorry for the people I passed, deliberately pulling in front of them to offer them a wheel. But we were all in our own private hells, just struggling through. A guy on a lugged steel Dolan with a very nice paint job went by, quickly. At last the road started to tilt decidedly downwards, and A was waiting for me at the side of the road. We rolled over onto the Dalveen descent together.

The Dalveen pass can be brilliant. The road slashes across the hillside in a bold diagonal stroke, with a very constant gradient and no difficult bends. Potentially it's very fast indeed. But it's rarely fast in practice, because the prevailing wind funnels into the the glen and blasts up the pass like a venturi. So it was yesterday. Suddenly, out of nowhere, the Stirling Tri woman was alongside, saying 'I descend better than I climb'. The guy on the steel Dolan was still in sight ahead, too. When he'd passed at the top I'd thought he looked fast, but we were gaining on him.

At the bottom, Steel Dolan, A Crooks, the Stirling Tri woman and I formed a gruppetito, rolling along briskly at above 30Km/h (still with some gradient helping). I felt really quite good, and was thinking seriously about doing the afternoon lap as well; I rode on the front for a few Km, breaking the wind, and then dropped back into shelter. The gradient eased out, and I clicked down gears until I was running in big/big - something I don't like doing. So I did something I often do: both thumbs down to drop the chain onto the small ring and change up a couple of gears at the back at the same time...

And dropped the chain on the inside.

I called to the others to go on, put my chain back on, and started after them. But the elastic had really snapped. My legs just didn't have it, and gradually they were pulling further ahead. For a while I kept company with an old fellow on a white Giant OCR, but we were both struggling and didn't stay together. On the last descent to the A76 I had so lost the plot that I hit a nasty pothole, hard, making an awful noise from the tyres, but fortunately they were hard enough that both survived. Then over the cattle grid and the last climb to the castle.

Again, the organisation at the castle was wonderful. I was timed in, and offered food, but I was so cold and fatigued that it was hard to eat. I stayed around and chatted for a while, but... I didn't go out for the afternoon. I came home, had a long hot bath, and went to bed.

I'll need to be fitter before mid June!