Day 13: Le Jog (Reste)

Team ChainLUBE were temporarily disbanded for a morning as our second rest day took place. A large part of me would like to tell you how much the freedom of rubber on road was yearned for; the industrious purr of chains and cogs was craved and the need to feel the wind howling beside our ears was sought but this was far from the case. The rest was met with open and welcome arms. Not quite for myself as I was required to make the short 13 mile journey from Pontypridd to Cardiff and besides almost pulling onto the M4 motorway, it passed without incident. I had intended to make use of the Taff trail – an off road route which skirted along beside the A470, quite possibly a safer alternative but its route remained obscure in the depths of concrete flyovers and underpasses. I didn’t take it.

Cardiff however, was a pleasant surprise. Hidden in the southern Welsh recesses of Glamorgan the old port was positively luminescent in the July sun. Having ascended and descended seemingly at every turn in Wales, the Capital relented to our demands of convalescence and lay prostrate and flat. Most surprising for myself, particularly as a Londoner, was the cosmopolitan and multicultural pride of the city – certainly more so than had been anticipated.

We ate lunch in a boisterous Italian establishment, adorned with monochrome photographs of previous contended diners and celebrities. As I entered, my eye caught the photo of a youthful Barbara Windsor; smiling gleefully into the melee. I felt slightly unsettled, particularly with my back towards her. We all ate pasta accompanied by a sizeable jug of water. That this was the first appropriate meal in our tour on a day of rest without cycling was some delicious irony and we ate on. In time, when the presumed manager lurked about our table, gently enquiring as to the appropriateness of our food, my mind drifted back to the Sopranos, the myriad references to the marriage of italian cuisine and organised crime, and the calamitous Artie Bucco. “You know better than the New Jersey Zagat? ‘Artie Bucco, warm and convivial host’.”

Day 12: Le Jog (Llandegely to Pontypridd 68 miles)

The Valleys. The term conjures images of rolling effortlessly down lush hillsides into Welsh countryside. Cycling alongside free flowing rivers. Hillsides overflowing with opulent shrubbery. What any aspiring geographer will tell you, however, is that for this geographical feature to exist there must also be a hill either side of it. River deep and mountain high as Ike and Tina might put it.

Tired and groggy from a huge day yesterday we start slowly out of Llandrindod Wells. We had hoped for an easy 60 mile day but what we ended up with was some of the longest and steepest climbs we have encountered on a blisteringly hot afternoon in South Wales. We head South to Brecon before climbing our way through the Brecon Beacons and down through Merthyr Tydfil arriving in Pontypridd in a tired sweaty mess.

It is some of the most breathtaking scenery since the highlands but we are in no state to enjoy it as we come creaking slowly over the gradual climb of the A470. For the first time in the trip I consider getting off of my bicycle and pushing it. In fact I consider getting off and throwing it into the nearest hedge such is the power of the midday sun beating down on my head. When my gears fail and I am stuck in the big ring for the second half of the ride I seriously consider some bicycle abuse. But we manage to slowly grind down the miles and somehow arrive in Pontypridd in one piece.

Here we part ways as Aldercy Manning heads southwards for a graduation ceremony while I Rafe Watson, arrive to meet my girlfriend’s (Beatrice Chastity) parents in one of the most physically degraded states of my life. We collapse onto a pub bench and grasp our icy cold beverages with delight. Two full days of rest to come…

Rafe Watson

Day 11: Le Jog (Chester to Llandegely 96 miles)

After 700 miles, you might possibly argue that a mistake was due and you might be right. In fact you were and it came right at the outset of an important stage of our cycling tour as we began Day 11 and our dance towards the Brecon. Having left Chester and entered Wales, we were overcome by an important desire to verify our route by the side of the A55. Possibly not the best decision we made on the tour but important nonetheless. We had travelled a good 5 miles in an erroneous direction. Quite how this felt at the start of a 90 mile day, is too difficult to articulate appropriately but rest assured; we were exasperated. Swiftly followed by a series of similar mistakes, we finally began a more appropriate southwards and to our destination.

To make up time, some Cavendishing of the highest calibre was required and delivered. By the time we had reached the sleepy town of Welshpool, we had put away a tidy 51 miles, in an eye watering amount of time. Suffice to say, we were broken men. As we lay slumped under the comforting shade of the town’s chapel trees we exchanged stories from the different sections of The Guardian whilst eating lunch. Aldercy Manning eats a “power mix” of nuts. It doesn’t make him feel very powerful. When we finally climb onto our bikes, we agree to continue at a more reasonable pace, perhaps 15mph? Ten minutes later we are both gasping, climbing uphill at 18mph against the better suggestions of the Welsh winds.

We eventually crawl into Llandegely, 96 long painful miles later, but we are jubilant. The evening sun does not recognise such achievements and whilst we wander the most faceless village in the history of organised human social groups, looking for our B&B; this joy is shortlived. We call the hostess. “Go back the other way, to the cattle grid and wait by the green bin. My husband will meet you,” she happily informs. Five minutes later we call her back, sat by cattle grid, alone. We have gone the wrong way.

Aldercy Manning

Day 9: Le Jog (Carlisle to Lancaster – 73 miles)

Having had perhaps one of the worst stages of the tour on Day 8, Team ChainLUBE were significantly deflated, hot and tired in the early hours. A trip to the local cafe revealed some fellow Geordie cyclists who happened to be cycling their own end to end journey, from east to west of the country. As Rafe Watson rose to collect cutlery for the table, he was met by several of the party. “Fucking poofters.” one sneered belittlingly beneath his breath. The day had begun.

Having made the mistake of looking at the elevation and gradient charts we were slightly intimidated by the hills from the outset; the worst of which registered at levels of greater than 1,400ft. We began confidently enough as the roads began to climb. The road momentarily gave way into a gravelled disaster and we braced ourselves for the worst. Thankfully it rapidly recovered enough for Rafe Watson to request a picture of the nearby cattle, for which we promptly stopped. “Get the wall in.” he instructed. “That is a boom wall.” I smiled at the use of school age slang from an English teacher and did as requested. The wall was proper boom.

On our descent we were dramatically stopped in our tracks as Rafe Watson was attacked by the local wildlife, sustaining a wasp sting to the lip. Having applied steroidal cream to the inflamed area he queried whether this would make for useful blog fodder before deciding that it most definitely would and I should take a picture of the offending piece of anatomy, sticking it out in the most unusual of manners. “To make it look big.” he informed.

We made a timely arrival into Lancaster at 1700 being met by Yannick Manning and his two tearaway young hounds. Having barked and howled and sniffed and slobbered and scratched at everything in the vicinity, we decided to make our way home, where we collapsed onto the sofa to watch the rest of the tour.

Chapeau

Aldercy Manning

Day 8: Le Jog (104 miles Glasgow – Carlisle)

After two great nights in Glasgow we roll reluctantly out of town at 0930. While it is obviously de rigeur in these situations to praise your hosts for their generosity and hospitality; in this case it truly was overwhelming. With a bag full of clean clothes, full bellies and a renewed sense of purpose, we follow our gracious host out of town to East Kilbride as she leads us out of Glasgow in a monstrous 4×4.

From here on out we follow Sustrans Route 74 which runs along a succession of A and B roads, running parallel to the M74. Our luck with cycle routes appears to have run out. In fact our luck has run out altogether. After 20 miles Aldercy Manning stops to take a picture of some grazing sheep and brakes too suddenly, hurling himself over the handlebars onto the floor. This sees to him riding the remaining 80 or so miles with one toe clip – the other stowed away in his saddlebag. Thankfully however, he is unhurt.

Another 15 minutes down the road and one of the countless potholes of route 74 catches us out and the first puncture is sustained by Aldercy Manning, some 400 miles into the tour. While these stops slow our momentum slightly, the real issue we encounter is the road. Gravelly, strewn with holes, uneven and in a general state of disrepair; it disappoints us in a multitude of ways – leaving us grinding slowly through the final grounds of Scotland, even on downhill stretches.

At 1915 we rattle into Carlisle, the border town having crossed a most untriumphant sign post, announcing out arrival into England. We are sore, stiff and our bones rattle to the frequencies of the roads as we crawl into bed, in some pain and praying for a smoother ride tomorrow when we reach the Lake District and some proper hills.

Rafe Watson

Day 7: Le Jog (Reste)

On the 7th day, providence rested. Team ChainLUBE, pilgrims that we are, gave our rubbers (bikes) a deserved rest on our 7th day of our tour correspondingly. Quite how liberating a day of awaking without immediate compulsion to sit on an unforgiving pedalled vehicle cannot quite be corresponded. One lacks the lexicon.

And rest was accomplished. Dame Kartholemew was recruited for her hostessing facilities in her majesty’s fine province of Glasgow and this was done. We began our recuperation as the sun skirted high in the sky and beat furiously upon its subjects, at a massage parlour arranged by our good host. “What kynda massaaage were yers intereested en?” enquires the accommodating masseuse. Rafe and I are stumped and look upon each other helplessly. “I’ll de yees teen minates un yer back and twenteh on yer leegs.” We process and translate and reply affirmatively a few minutes later. Rafe is led expertly into the room and the door is closed. And then silence. I await attentively outside toying with the idea of stating that “things are looking up,” and resign myself to the opinion that this is not the best or most appropriate of ideas.

The afternoon is lazed away with a fine picnic in the still heat of Glasgow, where our bellies are filled once again with the most plentiful of feasts. A striking number of young mothers push their children about the park talking amongst each other absently and runners stumble over themselves to run literal rings around one another. In the evening we amble into the centre of the city to conversate further over drinks. Education, human social behaviour and ‘The Game’ are discussed at length and Kartholemew very literally spits out her drink at the unsavoury suggestion that women are very predictable. This reaction had not been anticipated however. We are weary but content when we finally arrive home. As we struggle up the stairs to the flat I pass my bike in the stairwell. It says nothing. I say nothing back. Carlisle, England and 95 miles tomorrow.

Aldercy Manning

Day 6: Le Jog (104 miles – Oban to Glasgow)

The last two days have been close to or over 100 miles each and so the trip has reached a new level of intensity; both physically and mentally. Today as we roll out of picturesque Oban, I try my hardest not to look at my milometer. When you know that you’re aiming for 100 miles and the reading is only 1.3 miles after a 10 minute climb, your day stretches out before in a vague amorphous mass. The blank page. Hemingway called it a white bull; a menacing void waiting to be filled.

Filled it in, we did. Chatting with an elderly woman on a bench over lunch, “What a lovely lake.” “I think you mean Loch, where are ye – America?” With the offset Glaswegian cyclist we meet in the fringes of the town on a beat up 1970’s racing bike. That he might be speaking in an entirely foreign tongue was not a faraway thought as we sped through town. The lady who hears our story, gives her a rye smile and chuckles to herself – “A surgeon and a teacher and you’re going around on bicycles.” The African percussion teacher who bombards us with questions on the street in Renfrey.

We fill almost 11 hours of the day grinding down the West Coast of Scotland through incredible scenery which we are beginning to take for granted in glorious sunshine. We take it in turns to Stannard (verb – to give huge heroic pulls on the front in order to make life easier for a team mate who is injured/dispirited/lazy) it on the front and, not for the first time, it is our team work which pulls us through a second long, hot day in the saddle in a row.

At 1945 we arrive to the home of Rafe Watson’s friend Katholemew in a beautiful old tenement flat in Glasgow. The feast prepared smells divine as we walk in and the bed in the spare room looks soft and incredibly inviting. Tomorrow, a well deserved day off in Glasgow to explore and rest our aching joints.

Day 4: Le Jog

Today we descend from the highlands to lower grounds; the shores of Loch Ness. We leave Tain at a fast pace on Sustrans cycle route 1. It is kind to us, as it has been for the last 3 days, leading us along often deserted scenic roads which skirt around the imposing hills rather than over them. The aches and niggles we had been accumulating over the past few days, for the first time begin to subside and we have the strange sensation that rather than getting sorer and more tired as we go, we are actually becoming stronger.

As we fly through Dingwall towards Loch Ness we pass close to Inverness and Aldercy Manning remarks that it was an 8 hour train ride from there to our starting point, which feels welcomely satisfying. We stop for a quick chat with an elderly gentleman wearing a woollen téte de la course jersey who regales us with stories of his youth when he rode a penny farthing.

Of course, our hostel on the North shore of Loch Ness is one of the most unforgiving roads we have seen so far, which appears to be carved into the side of a mountain. This is compounded further by our hostel, which opens at 5pm being of no use to us when arrive triumphantly at 1430 to a distinct lack of fanfare. We manage to find a secluded beach and scare off our sole accompanying beach traveller and while away the afternoon with a quick dip, which might very well double as an ice bath and a lie down.

After a quick shower we enquiry about dinner with our hapless hostel manager. We order macaroni and cheese, which he doesn’t have. We order chilli con carne, which he doesn’t have. In the end, we settle on a lentil soup and just about convince him to throw in some slices of accompanying bread. “Sorry boys, it’s shit. I know – I’m a veggie too.” He returns later with some rice too which makes for a fairly stodgy but welcome dinner. He then settles down to watch the Tour De France highlights with us on our iPhone, providing expert commentary along the way – “Shit, that’s fast.”

Rafe Watson

Ice bath. (Ralentir)

Rafe Watson. (á bloc)