Off-road Manoeuvres in the Dark

I am not sure where the idea came from, but here we were, rushing across Carlisle station to catch at train to Dumfries. Our intention to cycle from there to Lockerbie. Several ideas had melded into one; a desire to do more cycle touring, through wilderness and mixed terrain, and a keeness to visit more bothies.

Marta on the train to Dumfries

We began, in perhaps not the most auspicious conditions, travelling west from Dumfries, along National Cycle Route 7. The quiet minor road, following the line of a 1760's military road, built to aid troop movement to Ireland. Even in the misty dreich, the rolling countryside was beautiful, the fields brought alive by the heavy plant associated with the construction of a massive pipeline, this time to carry not troops, but gas, across the Irish Sea.

Old school navigation!

After a brief, but unpleasant, dalliance with the A75, it was on to the Old Bridge of Urr and to Lauriston. Plunging into the forest, the road climbed steadily for over 3 miles, a great introduction to the high passes of these parts. A pause in Gatehouse of Fleet, before back up into the mist, onto the road to the old Gatehouse Station and the fantastic Big Water of Fleet Viaduct beyond.

Long steady climb to Gatehouse Station (no station)

Big Water of Fleet Viaduct

Here we reached my objective, where NCR7 became miles of car-free forestry tracks, climbing higher into the Galloway Forest Park. This was the challenge, 15 miles off road, fully laden bike, new cassette and road tyres (long story). At first I was nervous, but I recalled my childhood, riding a steel, drop-handlebarred, narrow-tyred tourer on all sorts of tracks like these. I kept my wheels turning and Marta just kept on rolling. The track steepened and I began to wonder if I had been foolish in binning my megarange freewheel in favour of a more sensible cassette with marginally less teeth. I gritted my own teeth and put those Yorkshire hills to good use.

The man has Soreen, he needs nothing more...

Queen on gravel

Finally at the top!

Dusk began to fall as we neared White Laggan, looking forward to our pasta and sauce and a celebratory bottle of champagne. But as we got closer, we spotted a car parked at the end of the path to the bothy. I was fuming. I had cycled 55 miles only to find some ill-equipped idiots and their dog had driven there (very probably illegally). For those unfamiliar with bothies and the idea behind them, let's just say they are not intended as free holiday houses. They are very, very basic, without water or any other facilities, beyond a fireplace (sometimes), and are intended for the use of those who love the outdoors and are prepared to make the effort to get to them. White Laggan is on both NCR7 and the Southern Upland Way, so we expected to meet like-minded people, on similar journeys to ours, not a carload of neds. The One Who Likes Mushrooms was equally enraged, so much so that he forgot to take his feet out the pedals, landing us both in a heap.

Track illumination, brought to you courtesy of Firth's Cycles, Black Dyke Mills, Queensbury...

The next (unplanned) five miles, in the dark, were challenging, the track was noticeably rougher, the descent steep. Through the deciduous woods there were awkward stones and lots of water to negotiate. It was a baptism of off-road fire. Finally on the last, gravelly climb, I was done and I pushed up the hill in defeat.

Having reached the road, we still had to find a place to sleep...

Long Legs demonstrates her happy face

We awoke to torrential rain. Neither of us could muster the energy or will to go back up Glen Trool to pick up our intended route, so, as it poured, we didn't know where we were headed, nor how far we were going to go. We began by going north; Plan A was to reach Stinchar Bridge and Forest Drive and after 12 miles of almost constant climbing we were finally rewarded with a view of the ethereal Carrick Forest to the north.

Leaving Dumfries and Galloway for a brief sojourn into Ayrshire

Definitely still raining...

Steam rises from Carrick Forest

Although open to cars, picking up the Forest Drive gave us another 5 miles of off-road cycling and, despite the atrocious weather, this really was a highlight of the trip. The landscape was wild, rugged and beautiful, it must be absolutely glorious in sunshine! 

Enjoying the Forest Drive, with Loch Bradan behind

Photobombing on wheels. Loch Riecawr.

Sweeping gently down towards Loch Doon, we passed above the Carrick Lane, a raging torrent of brown, boiling water, and continued down to Doon Castle. Obviously I had to stop, if only to marvel at the fact that someone had been bothered to move a whole castle before they constructed the reservoir.

Doon Castle with Black Craig behind

Loch Doon

Climbing away from the Loch and turning north, we reached Dalmellington and after a cheese sandwich in the bandstand, we left. 20 miles later, after the hardest time trial I have ever done, we reached Dalry. Never has a pub looked so inviting... 

This is not the bothy you are looking for...

The best B and Bs are often the ones you don't expect and we awoke warm and refreshed on Day 3. Our kit had dried, our bikes were tucked up in a shed and best of all, it had finally stopped raining. Now well off my planned route, we found instead that we were on the National Byway; it seemed rude not to follow it. Another 9 miles of climbing; up, up and over a beautiful high pass, then a long, glorious descent into wooded, luscious pasture and the village of Moniaive. 

Looking down towards the Water of Ken and the hills behind

The climb from Moniaive was a beast, steep to begin with and rearing up again just when you thought it was over. I regretted my 32 teeth, but perhaps with two days cycling already in my legs, I had every right to be tired! It was worth ever aching muscle, the reward a spectacular view of the Nith Valley, a flat-topped prehistoric hillfort incongruous in the rolling landscape.

The National Byway and the Kirkpatrick Macmillan bike (nowhere near the KM trail...)

Soaking up the landscape of the Nith Valley

Rolling through Tynron

In Thornhill we took stock and decided on a route to Ae that climbed out of the Nith Valley, skirting the southern tip of the Lowther Hills. The roads here seemed steeper, the countryside already rugged rough-pasture, only a couple of miles beyond the town. My tired legs toiled up the road; we were probably moving slower than walking pace, but there was a real sense of achievement reaching the summit plateau and looking back over the hazy landscape through which we had travelled. The flat topped hillfort still standing out proudly, Wee Queensberry poking her head above the vast coniferous forest, the larger Queensberry visible to the left.

Queensberry and Little Queensberry

Reaching the edge of the Forest of Ae, we climbed again, before a long, cool descent down to Ae Village. From here, Regional route 10 takes the forest tracks to Beattock, a key part of my original route, but with some sadness I had to concede it would have to wait for another day. 

Ae valley

Quite suddenly we found ourselves in a flat landscape, the flood plain of the Annan illuminated by golden late afternoon sun. Skirting through the arable fields to the north of Lochmaben, the motorway and Lockerbie, were finally in sight. After 165 miles, and just as darkness began to fall, we had reached our destination.

The Annan floodplain in the late afternoon sun

Wet, very definitely off-piste and stressful at times, it had still been an awesome experience. The quiet roads were fabulous, the scenery nothing short of stunning. I loved the long climbs over high passes and all the different landscapes we passed through. I hope that this time, it won't be around 25 years until I visit Dumfries and Galloway again.

Mission accomplished

Coast to Coast

It was near Harpham level crossing when I cracked. I felt like I was always chasing the back of the group and 103 miles in, 38 miles beyond the length of my previous longest ride, my body didn't quite understand what the hell was happening to it. I shed some tears, but I couldn't tell you what emotion they belied; in my mind, it was never in doubt that I would get to Bridlington, but I was frustrated with myself for finding the pace a tiny fraction faster than I would like, fearful of being the one who let everyone else down. 

September had seemed a long way away when the idea of the Way of the Roses in two days was mooted, there was time to train, a 100 mile sportive to try. But life doesn't work out the way you plan and instead I found myself sans roads bike, working in the middle of a boggy forest, somewhere on a Scottish island. I cycled when I could, on hire bikes, the first made of iron, the second several sizes too small, but it wasn't proper training and I was panicking. 

Returning home, after covering a hundred miles on her in Orkney, I longed for the sturdy familiarity of Marta and her panniers, but this challenge required a proper road bike. I had to fight all my fears all over again, get back on Sammy and kid myself that I still had enough time to train. My confidence seemed to be almost at an all time low and crashing half way round my first decent ride set it right back to zero. The game was up, as fit as marching around in a bog appears to make you, I was in no shape to cycle 170 miles across the country. I pulled out. But friends are very persuasive and somehow, after a 40 mile, super hilly ride, I had agreed that I would at least try day 1...

Eric meets the Queensbury Queens of the Mountain in Morecambe

Day 1 was... fun? I liked the hills. The Struggle out of Settle was hard and I gave up too easily, but I surprised myself with the way I coped with the rest. I kept eating and I didn't turn into the Hangry Monster from Hell and, after 65.5 miles, I had ridden my longest ever ride. Even after an upset stomach all evening, I couldn't think of an excuse to duck out of day 2.

Struggling with the Struggle
Photo: Jennifer Battersby

Rain envelops Pendle Hill

Team Queen and the big red support van

Van stop at High Side, after the Struggle

Morning came and off we set; a long, sometimes steep, climb to Brimham Rocks. I did not know, nor did I want to know, how far we had travelled or how much further we had to go. Reaching flatter roads, our pace increased. I felt stressed and tense riding in a tight group. I was going to get it wrong, I would cause a crash, but I knew that safely in the slipstream was by far the best place to be. Feeling as confident as ever, the bike paths of York stressed me, cleats in traffic stressed me and reaching the cafe in York, I knew I still had to do at least the same distance again. I stuffed my face in anticipation.

Ripon Cathedral

I was miserable when we left York. I was pushing my body into new territory and the pissing rain wasn't helping my confidence or my mood. On we went, through muddy fields and down tiny lanes. I tried hard to keep up, I tried hard to get myself into a good position in the group but I was struggling. Beyond Pocklington we hit the Wolds and the fascinating Millington valley, an almost flat road at the base of a deep clough. Over the Wolds and onto rolling terrain, finally reaching the land of level crossings: Hutton Cranswick, Driffield, Nafferton and Harpharm. 

There were only 10 miles left when I cracked. I was tired, we were massively behind schedule and I felt that by not keeping up, I was letting everyone down. Then I punctured. Spaced out and somewhere well into my adventure zone, I was about as useful as a chocolate tea pot in a sauna. Fortunately, the Queens are collective puncture wizards and, despite the rapidly fading light, we were soon on our way.

The dark country lanes of East Yorkshire finally gave way to the lights of Bridlington and I remember registering the old buildings of the town centre. From there, it seemed to take an age to get to the sea front, but my persuasive friend and I agreed to finish together. It was a very, very welcome sight when the big red removal van finally honed into view. 

113.5 miles later and 179 miles in total, Queensbury Queens of the Mountain had made it. Way of the Roses done.

The Queens do Bridlington by night
Photo: Caren Crabtree

Travels with my panniers

We left late in the afternoon. It was high summer and there seemed little urgency as we finally escaped the city centre and found our way onto the tow path. The geography of those places that I had previously flashed past whilst on the motorway, suddenly making sense, as we meandered through their borders. Out onto the flood plain of Morcambe Bay, that huge, wide expanse of big skies, sand and water. Into the rolling hills of the Leven Valley, up huge hills and down to the ferry in Windermere. It was evening as we stood on the quiet deck, the sun low over Red Screes to the north. It was the middle of summer, but the tourists were no where to be seen. Along Windermere, on a deserted forestry track, no need to worry about oncoming vehicles or anything else. Finally up to Skelwith Fold and fantastic views of the Langdale Pikes; and the final stretch though the quarry, around a herd of sheep and down into Langdale itself. It was gone 9 when we arrived and dusk was beginning to shroud the valley. 

 

 

Climbing from Langdale to Grasmere in the morning was a challenge, but it was really rewarding to summit Red Bank and tackle the damp and steep descent into the village. The scenery and weather were markedly different as we travelled north. A slog up Dunmail Raise rewarded with a fantastic road along Thirlmere; I never knew that it was dammed. Past Castlerigg stone circle, down into Keswick, back tracking up and down the old railway line looking for any way to avoid cycling back up that big hill! All the bridges were washed away in Storm Desmond, I hope one day that they are replaced. 

 

Reaching Threkeld, the weather was on the turn and heading up tiny undulating roads to Mungisdale, the heavens opened. And kept opening. A short toil alongside the dreary A66 and we were onto the old, parallel road. Straight as a die but with no rest-bite from the hills. As we looped north east towards Greystoke, by this point soaked to the skin, we found ourselves in a very different landscape, through gently rolling farmland, alongside big green, vibrant hedges. 

After just over 90 miles, it ended, of course, with a train. And as we pulled out of Penrith, wet feet, soaked panniers and all, it felt great to have planned and completed this journey and to have joined the dots between places which used to seem so very far apart.

 

 

Relationship counselling

I have owned a lot of bikes in my time, but my relationship with Sammy has always been difficult. Although a beautiful thing to behold, his 26 tooth rear sprocket and unfamiliar Look Keo pedals fuelled my ever present anxiety to the point where, although I loved and admired him, I could not bring myself to ride him. "I won't get me feet out at the junction", "Thornton Road feels hard, how can I get up any proper hills?!". So he sat in my living room and I looked at him. I watched the Tour de France on TV and I saw him from the corner of my eye, but I didn't ride him, I saw people flying along on their road bikes, but I didn't ride mine. For 18 months he proudly leaned against the bookcase, but we almost never ventured outside.

New and shiny

A near broken ankle and the inability to run pointed me once again towards my road bike. "If you have two bikes, we could go out for a ride together...". The internalised anxiety and pedal related stress poured out, the response reassuringly pragmatic, "Oh for goodness sake! Take those stupid pedals off and just ride your bike!". He had a point and fortunately, I had a 6mm allen key.

We went to Haworth and came home in the dark. The hills were impossibly hard but the joy of riding a road bike came flooding back in spades. 

Made it to Haworth

My ankle healed (sort of), my pedals have gone through 4 iterations, my cassette now has 32 teeth and, when finally I cycled up Thornton Road, unclipped at the lights, turned left and continued up Keelham, I found a wonderfully welcoming and supportive cycling club: the Queensbury Queens of the Mountain.

With the Queens, off on a birthday ride to Grassington (Photo: Jules Graham)