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.