Le Jog: Final Thoughts and Sign Off

2nd August 2013

It’s been a week now since we finished John o’Groats to Land’s End, collapsing from our bikes and into our beds on July 23rd having set out early on 5th July. With 7 days to sit around and rest joints and limbs made sore by the relentless cycling we put ourselves through, there was a chance to reflect on what we had done and what we might take away from it all.

It was 1109 miles over 3 countries, 24 counties and countless cities, towns, villages and hamlets across the United Kingdom. The hospitality we received from friends and strangers was never less than remarkable. I’d feared we might find people somewhat hostile in the more remote areas of Scotland or Wales, swaggering bearded Londoners in lycra, but this only reflects poorly on the prejudices that I carried into the trip as people went out of their way to prove me wrong and help us out.

It started with a chase through London rush hour to catch our train. Then a dusky night in Caithness where the sun sets but it never seems to get truly dark and we were on our way. Amongst streams and rocks, shrubbery and gravel, light and air, lochs and pebbles throughout the highlands. The hum and buzz and crackle of tyres across sand and gravel and asphalt. Sunlight and tarmac. Slowly shifting into farms and fences, cows and sheep, trees and fields and creeping alongside us ever so slowly buildings of brick and cement, tiles and windows, wood and stone. Shops and markets, cricket grounds and shop awnings, power stations and windmills, roadkill and oil stains. And always the sunlight and the tarmac. Then, all of a sudden, people and sound, crowds and colours, chatter and sirens. Motorways and A-roads, flapjacks and energy drinks, pies and ale, tennis and the Tour de France lulling us to sleep after long days in the saddle. Sheep and tractors, cattle grids and canals, tow paths and fishermen. And the sunlight, still there, beating down on us and on the tarmac we travelled on. Sun cream and cycling shorts, industrial estates and wooded greens. Now, remarkably, the sea which we thought we might never see again. Boats and b-roads, hills and highways, hostels and town halls, viaducts and railway lines and everything bathed in the relentless sunlight of a baking British July. Bunk beds and bathrooms, floors and sofas and a strange unquenchable hunger and thirst which comes from the constant pushing of legs in a circular movement. Hours and hours of staring at the floor in front of you, or the cars rushing past or into the horizon. Chat and laughter, conversation and debate, lazy evenings reading and writing. The rise and fall of the ululating earth as we neared the end. Then a sprawling, stuttering rush to the finish and a meandering, lazy train journey back to where we started.

We stayed in many YHA hostels throughout Scotland and the North of England and found the facilities excellent. In often remote locations their existence opens up whole swathes of the country to walkers or cyclists interested in seeing different areas which would otherwise be inaccessible. In facilitating travel to young people or families unable to afford the luxuries of hotels and bed and breakfasts they provide a wonderful service that seems all too often to go unused. While there seems to be much more of a hostelling culture in mainland Europe it was disappointing to see these places often half full and under-utilised in the UK. Many of the helpful, often eccentric staff provided us with help finding cheap dinner and gave us a good laugh along the way.

My meetings with Sustrans staff in Caerphilly were also extremely helpful, providing me with a free bell and water bottle, and even filling it up for me before directing me the quickest way out of town and on towards Bristol. The routes serve a key purpose in allowing casual riders to navigate through busy and built up areas without coming into direct contact with traffic and were vital in allowing me to get across the Severn Bridge and move on into Bristol avoiding the M48. They just became somewhat difficult to follow in and around the larger urban areas and too often led us in circuitous routes which slowed our progress and steered us towards a couple of days in the saddle which were longer than we would have liked. Having said that the one day I did solo, Pontypridd to Bristol I managed to do entirely unplanned and without a map thanks to Sustrans, strangers and, as always, a little bit of luck.

There are a huge amount of things that I saw and felt over the trip that I think will stick with me for a long time and I hope to be able to remember them in years to come. The main one was a sensation of being beaten or defeated by a sharp, steep hill or one too many hours of riding and then the feeling of digging somewhere within ourselves to get through it. I lost count of the number of times that I felt like climbing off my bike and sitting by the side of the road or slowing to a useless pace but was dragged through by encouragement from Aldercy Manning or simply the feeling that we were in this endeavour together and it was vital that we both make it through. Similarly, on the Friday evening that we sat in a Carlisle subway and all I could think about was the soreness all over my body and the need to stop, it was his ridiculous dance moves to the Radio 1 blasting from the radio and insistence that we go “raving” that pulled me through.

The endless hours of conversation and talking through of ideas gave us something to think about and on the whole we were drawn to the ideas that had motivated me to plan the trip in the first place. A constant theme was cycling which led to sustainability not only in the way we live but relationships and aspirations for the future. Education and Medicine led us into the joys and challenges of growing older and trying to negotiate careers. Above all I think we were trying to generate an idea of society and where we might fit into that. A departure, then, from our days sloping around Ealing Broadway, 16 years old, seeing what trouble we could get into. There was something that seemed integral, even necessary to doing a trip like this with someone who I had known since childhood – a sort of continuation of our education. Besides we did learn a great deal about the topography of Great Britain and rudimentary bicycle mechanics, about pain and persistence, ecology and philosophy, determination and satisfaction, joy and exhaustion, sunlight, tarmac and friendship.

Rafe Watson

The changing face of Team ChainLUBE

Day 19: Fin (Le Jog)

Brilliantine Mortality (It’s a boy)

First of all: we are exhausted. Waking up at 0605 as hazy sunlight floods into the living room, I was sleeping as my mind wandered back over the trip so far. 15 days on a bike. One on a train to Thurso. One in Glasgow. Two in Pontypridd. It has been almost 3 weeks that we have been consumed with the task of cycling the length of the country. Last night saw us sat in a first floor flat overlooking Perranporth beach eating risotto generously prepared by an old friend of Aldercy Manning and walking back through pitch black unravelling country roads to bed down in a beautiful cottage owned by another friend. Once again we are at risk of taking the exceptional hospitality we have seen throughout Scotland, the North of England, South Wales and now the South West for granted. It really would not have been possible for us to get this far without the encouragement and belief of a few key people. You know who you are (TEAM CHAINLUBE FOR LIFE).

As I lie there looking to the days and months ahead, I am filled with a strange anxiety. It has been 19 days of heaving our heavy limbs out of bed, to climb back onto our bicycles and push on relentlessly towards our new destination. Now that we are closing in on Land’s End – I wonder what happens the morning after we arrive, and the morning after that. The joy and the relief of reaching our goal is twinned with a melancholic nostalgia. Luckily Reuben Merriweather and Lucius Harvey soon appear, dog walked and begin preparing a hearty breakfast of tea and porridge to distract from such thoughts.

Brushing aside the news of a Royal baby, we clamber back upon our bikes and head determinedly towards our final destination. Reuben Merriweather leads us along 20 miles of stunning coastal roads towards Hayley but we pay a price for such beautiful views, climbing some of the steepest and taxing hills along the way. Here, feeling somewhat the worse for wear and with my bicycle’s front derailleur once again refusing to shift into the little ring, we rejoin our old friend the A30 for the final jaunt. Before the day is out, we will see an unlucky cyclist slumped by the side of the road, having collided with one of the many seemingly reckless cars; which come careering around the unaccomodating corners at eye watering speeds. It is a stark reminder of just how lucky we have been to escape the trip with only a few near misses, rather than full blown accidents.

There has been a constant balancing act on our trip between “avoiding highways” picking smaller more serene scenic roads and a simple need to get to where we are going. On the whole, we have been successful albeit several long hot shifts on the sides of unforgiving and precarious dual carriageways which would have been much better avoided. While we have enjoyed the success of the Sustrans routes in Scotland, they are unaccountably unsatisfactory in England and we have more often than not, neglected them for the pure reasons of efficiency.

As we spin towards Land’s End however, these thoughts are pardoned and we are triumphant. Some 5 miles from the coastal precipice and abrupt ending of England it suddenly becomes very clear that we may well indeed complete the pilgrimage after all. A bunch sprint is in process on the final flats into the theme park that is Land’s End and instead of the Atlantic, we see the Arc De Triomphe. Instead of the call of the tides, we hear the roar of crowds. There is no sun, only bright lights and music. It is 1pm when Team ChainLUBE assuredly arrive. The milometer reads 1109 miles. Reuben Merriweather wanders into a local cafe to order us 3 cream teas and is charged £24. We are home.

Rafe Watson

Because it’s not about the bike.

Team ChainLUBE > Le Jog

Day 18: Le Jog (The Reuben Merriweather Chronicles – Plymouth to Perranporth 61 miles)

In the wake of Chris Froome’s triumphant victoire. I was eager to commence my mini tour. Invitee to ‘Le Jog’ and team ChainLUBE, a reunion of old friends and significantly my first big ride since a Toyota MR2 sent me from bicycle to a spinal board three months earlier… time to get back on the steel horse. *clenches bum.

0930 down town Plymouth meeting with the grey Atlantic sea fret. A welcome haar by all accounts. After a heavy session the previous day, odometers now boasting four digits, the boys were in a bad place, the John Wayne stance said it all.

Fuelled up on pasties we got going…the Shimano symphony sung in unison as the tamar bridge expelled us from the back passage of Devon. Kernow a’gas dynergh. Welcome to Cornwall.

Respectfully I slotted into le derrière of le peleton, full of ‘big ring’ gusto. This was to be my undoing as after a couple of ventures to ‘la tête de la course’ I noticed my legs seemed to be generating significantly less wattage than the finely chiseled hams of Aldercy Manning and Rafe Watson. I was pleased I even made it to Liskeard. Team ChainLUBE’s collective pride took a battering however, during a brief traffic light encounter with a fellow cyclist, who casually dropped into conversation that he had done Le Jog four times. In fact he had done it there in three days, and back also in three; a truly absurdly ridiculous statement. We later agreed that it was possible if he did 300miles/day. Unanimously we decided he was clearly a man of great integrity and more significantly you should have seen his legs. Ridiculous. Calves of truth.

After a quick pitstop and a hunt for flapjacks we skilfully negotiated our steeds between scally’s and mobility scooters and locked onto the A38. It’s funny how a road you think you know so well becomes a complete fuck on a bike. A route I fondly associate with a run to the sun…holidays, trips to the beach and parties…became a bleak relentless burning bastard of despair. That said we beasted through Bodmin at a rate of knots following onto the bowel inducing A30; a stretch of road that has taken many a cyclist’s life.

The hard shoulder’s white line became my God as we continued to the north coast, rush hour traffic backed up by the dozen thanks to our pothole slalom. 61 miles later we made it to the beautiful village of Rose, greeted by Larry the black lab who was expecting far more energy than we had left to give.

We were later collected by Rosamund Marcellus who whisked us to Trevose in the beamer. We ate in the flat overlooking the evening haze of Droskyn, Perranporth. Weary legs replenished with risotto seasoned by Rosamund Marcellus’ phallic mill. Finally we visited the local ale house. After deep discussions on eldercare, the monarchy and Chad Kroeger it was time for to say goodbye to today, and replenish for Le Jog’s closing chapter.

I thoroughly enjoyed the day. I feel a bit of a fraud swanning in on the champagne final days of the tour, but glad to share some of the experience with this great team. Cheers for getting me back on the bike boys!!!

Many thanks to Lady and Lord Grantham for putting us up this night. Pints (were) waiting for you at the tavern xxx

Reuben Merriweather

Introducing Reuben Merriweather. Australia’s contribution to the West London Gentleman’s club, Team ChainLUBE

Day 17: Le Jog (Taunton to Plymouth 80 miles)

Nothing wakes you up like the racist on the table in the B&B in Taunton sat across from you. It happened at 8am with a mouthful of muesli. What began as a perfectly straightforward conversation regarding the make of cars on the road descended into casual xenophobia. “These days they’re all made by the Japs aren’t they?” quipped the elderly American man to a nearby couple. Rafe Watson and I exchanged wary looks as the uninformed bigotry continued.

Taunton to Plymouth had been pitched as a difficult day and we had anticipated an ordeal from the outset. What we hadn’t expected, were the devastating ascents just past Ide and Dunchideock. The first segment of our journey, traversing Taunton to Exeter passed easily enough. We lunched early outside Exeter cathedral discussing the lively topics of mortality and wider existentialism, but not before a brisk stroll down the worlds narrowest street which hung heavy with stench of Ammonia.

As we left Exeter seeking the hills of Ide and Dunchideock, we were not expecting the rapid fire punches we were about to stomach. We rose over agonisingly steep climbs for extended periods, interspersed by insignificant recovery periods of 20-30 seconds, followed rapidly by a succeeding ascent. Our clothes were drenched, our bikes refused to cooperate and we were forcefully exhaling so hard our cries could be heard for miles. At the top (eventually) we paused to debrief. “Endurance sports are a metaphor for life,” I ventured. Rafe Watson acquiesced and continued. “Will Smith put it best..” and paraphrased the following:

“The keys to life are running and reading. When you’re running, there’s a little person that talks to you and says, “Oh I’m tired. My lung’s about to pop. I’m so hurt. There’s no way I can possibly continue.” You want to quit. If you learn how to defeat that person when you’re running. You will how to not quit when things get hard in your life. For reading: there have been gazillions of people that have lived before all of us. There’s no new problem you could have–with your parents, with school, with a bully. There’s no new problem that someone hasn’t already had and written about it in a book.”

He paused at the end and added – “Except I tell my students it’s about cycling and cinema. It’s pretty much the same thing.”

The ride from there onwards was something of a blur. We rode hard on the A38 for longer than perhaps was necessary but made our way into Plymouth in good time, some 80 miles later. Some manner of warship heaved itself painfully across the port and the docile English Channel and looking at its creaking metal frame in the distance, I empathised exactly with what it must feel.

Aldercy Manning

Day 16: The Daffyd Garrick Chronicles (Bristol to Taunton)

0600 and the alarm bell rings. An early start is the name of the game as I prepare to meet up with the chainlube lejoggers for their Bristol to Taunton leg, bolstering the team compliment to a grand total of three. Parker Johnson is not in attendance as he is away on a 2 week training camp in Mallorca, getting in some much needed altitude training. He will be missed for his powerful locomotive engine on the flats but there will be other days when team chainlube is able to ride at full strength.

A train journey is required before our scheduled rendzvous can take place. Arriving at the platform with plenty of time, I find that the train’s bike spaces are already fully booked. This comes as no surprise as my own efforts to reserve a bike space the day previously had resulted in the same outcome as I spoke to the First Great Western call centre operative somewhere in India. A nervous fifteen minutes are spent waiting on the platform to see if the bike reservists show their face and more importantly, their wheels. A Helen Wyman lookalike shows up. Also a large Australian man with a spesh allez (the TCL official bike as it happens)…none of us bookings. Things aren’t looking good but at least I have the element of first come first served in my favour. I briefly comtemplate whether it is possible to cycle to Bristol but before I can seriously entertain the thought, the train manager decides that the reservists are a no show and so grants us access to the hallowed bike compartment. Relief all round. “I’ll be in Coach A if you need me” I say to the train manager as I head to my seat. He looks somewhat nonplussed and I then realise it is probably because he won’t have much trouble finding me given my lavish choice of cycling attire today. And by lavish I mean a garish mixture of unco-ordinated team kits.

Our route today looks easy on paper: 55 miles. A few minor climbs. A town called Westonzoyland. In theory it should be a doddle. However, it remains to be seen how the ravages of the previous two weeks have taken their toll on young Rafe Watson and Aldercy Manning. Do they have anything left in the tank? And will they be saving themselves for the last few ardous days through Devon & Cornwall, renowned for their energy sapping nature. Only time will tell.

In my bag I bring copious amounts of gold bullion aka homemade flapjack which I hope will see them through the next few days (though it later arises that Aldercy eats his all in one day). I dish out the rations on arrival as we are greeted by the charming Beatrice Charity and it goes down a treat. After a brief catch up over a coffee we get the TCL show on the road.

We set off fairly cautiously, following the shared cycle path out of Bristol and into the surrounding countryside. Before long we are barelling along at a heady rate of knots. Not quite full gas but close. Some big turns are put in on the flat sections although the peloton becomes more fragmented during the day’s climbs as we each climb at our own pace. Two of the climbs in particular stand out as being particularly challenging; one at the start of the ride and another near the end, forming the ride into some sort of hill sandwich.

During the last climb through Enmore, the sun and humidity increases creating a claustrophobic atmosphere on the narrow roads. The flies seem to sense our weakness and begin to circle and hum like vultures around our head which only serves to exacerbate the difficulty of the conditions. Aldercy in particular was troubled by these insect tormentors and looks rather flustered as he crests the top of the hill.
We happily leave the ascent behind us and then enjoy a fast and decent descent down into Taunton, allowing our sweat soaked clothes to gain much needed ventilation.

Reaching Taunton, we immediately set about locating the nearest beer serving, bike friendly establishment with outdoor seating. Not the most demanding list of requirements but it does take some time. After relaxing for a few minutes I realise that its actually taken quite a lot out of me today. Perhaps my showboating at times wasn’t the most energy conservative way to ride but if I feel like this after one day how must my felow team members be coping? Granted, I could quite happily get on the bike again tomorrow but the day after that? And the day after that? I’m not so sure. A chapeau is definitely in order.

Post dinner, I make my way to the train station and board the world’s quietest train back to London. Not a single bike in the bike compartment this time. Just as well that I actually have a reservation this time then.

Daffyd Garrick

Day 15: The Rafe Watson Chronicles (Pontypridd to Bristol)

Today, for the first time, I set off alone from Pontypridd to Bristol. Without maps, an iPhone or much organisation – I decide to rely entirely on Sustrans route 4: The Celtic Trail and a vague notion that my route is Caerphilly, Newport, Chepstow and finally Bristol. With the aid of two tourist information offices, one Sustrans centre and several strangers I meet; I arrive into a sweltering Friday night in Bristol 70 miles later, booking into a swanky hotel with Beatrice Charity who has arrived by train.

The Sustrans routes have been brilliant wherever we’ve used them, particularly in the highlands; but today the circuitous route and bewildering signposting around Pontypridd found me getting off to an incredibly slow start. I arrive in Newport, 15 miles down the road, having clocked up 30 miles on my milometer. This slow progress led me to jump onto A roads and try my luck with more informative signposts and directions.

On the whole, the plan works but as I come fizzing into Bristol along winding B roads where the sun had caused the Tarmac to melt and cling to my tyres, I am longing for some confirmation as to how much longer I have left. I also feel something mechanical and joyless about pushing over the Severn bridge through the West Country scenery with no one to discuss it with.

Tomorrow I reunite with Aldercy Manning and mystery guest Daffyd Garrick for a shorter ride to Taunton. The heat has followed us to the West Country and I fully expect it to be declared the hottest day in the year. Again,

Rafe Watson

Ps. Some cheeky photographic previews of Daffyd Garrick’s entry tomorrow.