Barnet to Glasgow - COP 26

I had ridden 350yds when I had a mechanical. But it wasn’t on my bike; it was in my head. Had I packed a particular map? I stopped, padded my pockets; where was it? Checked my small pack strapped to my back carrier. Couldn’t see it. Went back home, checked again. Yes, it was in the pack after all. So I left for a second time in eight minutes. No question, I was nervous. 

   I intended to cycle to Glasgow to raise money for Sustrans,( sustainable transport), and arrive in time for the COP 26 climate talks. I would use mainly, but not exclusively, the National Cycle Network routes and work my way north over 9 days with one rest day. I found my way with a general, very general, NCN national map and the relevant pages torn from an old road atlas. I considered a compass and sextant unnecessary. 

   And so on a still, dry Saturday morning I set out wearing a bright yellow T shirt stating my journey on the back and a plea on the front to Recycle our World. With these words I think my T shirt weighed more than the 4 or 5 kilos strapped to my carrier and the bum bag around my waist. I felt very visible and a little self conscious as I rode towards St Albans to pick up route 6 which would take me to Northampton, my first overnight stop.

    I acclimatised both physically and emotionally on that first day and learnt quite a lot. Don’t push it. If 10mph is hard drop down a gear and 8 will do; and if you’re doing 12 or 13mph,then eat your heart out Thomas de Ghent all’s well with the world. The route signs can be scarce and hard to find, especially in urban areas. This I had suspected, and found in Luton. I worked my way through with hunch and clumsy mapping before I was regurgitated onto the lovely Sewell Greenway heading towards Leighton Buzzard. Here I joined the Grand Union towpath which I was to follow to north of Milton Keynes. Beautiful, tranquil, flat, only one way to go with lovely people selling you coffee and cakes from charmingly painted narrow boats. How could anything go wrong? But it did. I followed a sign over the canal and worked my way through streets, thinking I was making progress , and back over anther bridge to find myself going past familiar landmarks. So familiar that I’d only seen them half an hour before. There are many words to describe a person who does this, but I’ll settle on one. Prat. It added about another 5 mls. 

   Having successfully pierced the force field of the furious A45 to the south of Northampton, I found my hotel. It had seen better days, or maybe I had arrived on its very best day, I didn’t know. But my bike was safe, the bed soft, the shower hot and the shower gel fragrant. It was Saturday night which is alright for fighting but ,with 81mls covered, I slept instead.   

    The second day dawned bright and sunny. The breakfast was plentiful and I was on my way by 8. Route 6 would take me 14mls to Market Harborough via the Brampton valley way. This is a disused railway line with, in fact, 6mls still used as a heritage line, and it’s a delight. Old trains and signal boxes to cycle by and tunnels, some of golden Autumn trees and others of brick , to cycle through. You couldn’t get a better start for a Sunday ride. 

    I joined route 64 at Market Harborough which would take me to Newark on Trent. It was not long after this that I stumbled upon the second highlight of the day near the village of Tugby. The Ventoux Café. A place given over entirely to the Tour and everything to go with it – memorabilia, gear ,pictures ,T shirts and ,of course, coffee and food. Some of the great names of cycling are painted on the drive up to the entrance – Beryl Burton, Pantani, Wiggins, Tagholm- they were all there. It is the ultimate cycle ride stop and such a nice place to linger you’d never make it back for Sunday lunch on time. Perhaps it’s wrecked a thousand marriages? 

    I left the café and continued my journey. The villages of Leicestershire and Nottinghamshire slowly fell behind me. The fine weather continued and the Travel Lodge in Newark beckoned. By 5 I had covered 74 mls, my bike was safely in my room and I was on my way to a Wetherspoons for a pint and supper. A very good day.   

    For twenty minutes I negotiated the noisy urgency of a 21st century Monday morning rush hour. On and off my bike, 

standing stranded on dual carriage way islands awaiting my turn to cross a road that didn’t belong to me, riding along rutted cycle paths next to giant arterial roads indifferent to my presence. The animal of the economy awoken and raring to go. And then I turned onto a thoroughfare of a bygone age and a glorious day began. 

    The terrain started pretty flat, and then became flatter and seemingly wider, as if worked by some giant rolling pin offering views to distant horizons beneath vast skies. Pylons marched across this landscape carrying energy from power stations mushroom clustered with cooling towers. Entering North Lincolnshire I cycled along roads, fringed by dyke and ditch, arrow straight, as if drawn with ruler and set square. Swop the cooling towers for grain silos and it could have been Kansas. 

    From a certain angle, caught through a gap in the bushes of a roadside embankment, the Premier Inn, Goole , suggests a hint of bucolic charm. No. I was 125yds from junction 36 of the M62. I slept well and dreamt of cooling towers. 

    “Hopefully your old man legs don’t give up on you”, written by my daughter on the Sustrans just giving page ,were in my mind as I covered the 29mls to York to spend a relaxing half day with Eloise who is studying there. Having taken a photo of the Drax power station ,especially for Mike, I was in York by 11. I met Eloise on the banks of the Ouse and as I walked towards her to give her a hug she could see both legs were working fine. We had a lovely day. The legs had got me half way. 

    Reeth was my destination the next day. Once again it was dry and mild as I trended north west along route 65 towards Linton-on -Ouse and Ripon. The going was good but as I climbed a bridge over the east coast main line it was to become marvellous. On the other side of the bridge 3 men waited separately, looking north, each with a camera. Curiosity stopped me. It was the distinctive noise I heard first, and then the distinctive steam and then the very distinctive, unmistakable Flying Scotsman thundered by a sign telling the world Edinburgh was 200mls away. The 3 men had arranged the rendezvous ; but benign fate had the rendezvous collide with me at 60mph. Someone was smiling at me. 

    It was ironic that , as I headed north towards the climate talks where coal plays the villain in a global drama, I had been moved by ,and taken pictures of ,coal driven technology of the previous two centuries. I mulled it over with tea and bacon roll in Ripon and something similar in Leyburn. 

    The first high ground, 400metres plus, lies between Leyburn and Reeth. The road also goes through the M.O.D firing ranges of Catterick garrison. So past signs telling of tank driver instruction, to the crack of live fire indicating a different type of practise , I crept up over several false summits . Red flags told me of danger, but also of a following wind. The descent into Swaledale was fast and steep. At the Dales café I stopped once more and here I got my first sponsorship on the road from a couple on a cycling holiday with their son. A great end to a damn good day. 

    The valley of the river Swale cuts deeply into the Pennines from the east. This would take me through, up and over England’s spine. I hoped it wouldn’t break mine. Leaving the sanctuary of my b and b a sign told me Kirby Stephen was 23mls. I was hoping to reach this Cumbrian outpost for elevenses, or at least lunch. I sincerely hoped it wouldn’t be supper. As I made slow progress west this prettiest of valleys glowered at me from low heavy clouds. I was leaving the comfort of the eastern rain shadow. At Thwaite the road turns abruptly , and very steeply, north towards Keld. Gears and legs prevailed as I passed the Pennine way far below which I’d walked some 37 years before. Passing Ravenseat, of Our Yorkshire Farm fame, the going became easier, especially with the tail wind. I was at 1650 ft. The high point of the ride. The Welcome to Cumbria sign, a little later was anything but . 

Words blurred with spray paint and a single walking boot tied, swaying , between the two posts; it was more deep south than deep north. Had it been a cleated cycle shoe I would have turned round. Directly after this the road, like some crude ski jump, drops into Cumbria at 14%. I made Kirby Stephen for elevenses. 

    With the big hills behind me I felt easier and the ride to Penrith, another 23mls, was uneventful except for the first heavy ,soaking rain and a strange mechanical. Making good ,wet progress I suddenly became aware of a scraping noise around the back wheel. Looking down I saw my back carrier had detached itself from the frame beneath my saddle and swung round , with pack, onto the road. Bizzarre. Loose nuts and that was just me. I shouldered my pack and attached the carrier to the seat post with a bungy cord. 6mls later, and a visit to a DIY shop for screws and it was fixed. The Glendale guest house in Penrith is lovely; the exact opposite of the next days’ weather forecast. 

     For 6 days I’d been cycling towards this forecast. Every evening an exciting cast of the BBC’s finest weather men and women had told of ‘persistent and, at times, heavy rain in the north west’ . Now, on this seventh day, it was no longer an abstraction, but a dark, soaking reality. I straddled my bike and rode towards Carlisle on route 7 

    After a few miles I rode through the anonymous village of Skelton. I stopped to snap the village sign for personal posterity. My mother and father had met here during the war while working at the transmitting station which is still there. They married in Penrith in 1946 deep in the days of rationing. Thanks mum and dad. I rode on wishing the rain could be rationed. 

    Arriving in Carlisle the rain did ration itself and the sun made a brief appearance. I dried out a little, bought something to eat and left the city on the A7. Main roads out of towns might be busy but they’re direct, easy to follow and can save you energy. But, more importantly, they often have portable cafes in laybys. From 12mph I screeched to a halt. Free cake with every order, but only on Fridays. It was Friday. Everything was alright with the world. 

    As I crossed the M74 near Gretna I saw the Scottish Saltire on the motorway below. A few minutes later I passed Scotland’s First house in Gretna. Here I joined route 74 which follows the old A74 and intertwines with the M74 for the next fifty miles. It was windy and gloomy and becoming more so. The weather was re grouping. 

    I had thirty odd miles to go as the wind increased and the rain started again. Down to 6mph at times I crawled forward. Expletives from clenched teeth were torn from my mouth and hurled over my shoulders by a wind that didn’t give a shit. A guy on a road bike slowly overtook me and gained fifty yds. and then gained no more. We rode several miles like this, his body bobbing with effort, mine too tired to bob. Was he going to Glasgow, or were we both going to Hell? 

   As the road turned slowly, very slowly, northwards the wind eased and the rain stopped. My senses, emerging from their bunker, told me it was lighter. Resting in a bus shelter the hills of the southern uplands came into focus, sharp, clear, green. I would make it, and did so. Bathed in low Autumn sunshine, I reached Moffat at 4.15. Eight hours ,bookended by dramatically contrasting weather, had taken me to the base camp for the Glasgow summit. 70mls covered. The next day was a rest day when I would deal with the media clamour. 

    While the media failed to materialise the rest day weather mocked me. Clear blue skies and a gentle tail wind. I ate , drank and watched a couple of matches in a bar. I certainly did not go for a spin to loosen my legs. 

    The live report from Glasgow on the BBC news early on the morning of my final day told the story. Grey, grim pouring rain splattered the window behind the reporter. 60mls south, Moffat was no different. Wet immediately and soaked 4 minutes later, with each pedal stroke I muttered, last day, last day. 

    After 2 mls I noticed my bike wobbled when I free wheeled. Looking down I saw a slightly warped back wheel. Inspection told me I had 2 loose spokes. I had no choice but to carry on. It survived the remaining 63mls but it was worrying. 

    The wind and rain were an efficient demoralising team. I bought some food. Standing pathetically outside the shop, the imperative of avoiding hypothermia trumped that of satiating my hunger. I rode on, the wind, at times, blowing me sideways and nearly bringing me to a halt. 

    I came to a service station that served both my route and the parallel M74. I sat inside, cupping a coffee with both hands looking at strange people who were neat, tidy, warm and dry. The weather began to lift and I rode on thinking just how unsustainable heated car seats are. 

   The wind was behind me now and progress was good, fast even. The wheel was holding out as I passed through, and behind towns. I saw signs for places from the Scottish football results; Hamilton, Motherwell. I was getting there; would I score? 

    My route met the Glasgow Edinburgh route 11mls from Glasgow. I turned left. The final countdown had begun. This is a great way into the city and with the Clyde to my left I ticked off the miles. The back wheel was pretty lumpy now but it didn’t matter anymore. I could always get off and walk. 

 Passed Sunday walkers in urban parks I cycled and then I saw the rail bridge across the Clyde into Glasgow central station. Picture taken, I cycled up the hill to the Safestay hostel . ‘ I’ve made it , I’ve bloody made it’ I said to myself.   

    Chuffed is a good word. It suggests a puffed out chest, a head held higher than normal, a jauntier step. Whether the people of Glasgow saw this, as I wheeled my bike to Evans cycle shop, the next day, I don’t know, but I felt it. Bike mended, I cycled to COP26 and what did I see? Cops, lots of cops, thousands of them lining cordoned off streets with a few people leaning against barriers. It seemed, on this first day, that the city was already fed up with the whole thing. 

 President Biden’s motorcade went by, all outriders, blue lights and fear. Average MPG of the vehicles 4 or 5. Heavens only knows what it was for the accompanying helicopter. 

    That evening, in a wonderful pub called ‘the State’ I put a pint and peanuts on a table. I was wearing my T shirt. 5 people next to me asked questions. 2 hours and 2 ‘gift’ pints later the world had been put to rights, including scams and con artists raising money for charities, as they gave me £43  cash for my effort. It was paid into my just giving page that evening. Honest. As they left one of the women turned and said ‘ Now you get a good meal inside you before you go to bed tonight’. I had soloed from London, but it felt good to be mothered. 

    489mls is a big figure, but it’s irrelevant. It’s the local journeys along our cycleways, greenways, roads and lanes that count. Make the climate right for them and the cadence of progress might turn our way. 

     Thank you Southgate CC for your support. It was never quite a solo ride with you behind me. Chapeau.