Passione Celeste

by Mark Pritchard

I received permission to ride off the front of the peloton to Uppermill so that I could say hello to Pete and Liz, a couple of close friends who would be waiting at the roadside. They had also been very generous in their sponsorship of me, so it was great to be able to thank them personally rather than by the more impersonal email. After a fast bit of time trialling I saw them and stopped for a chat for a few minutes before the group caught me. Whist I would have been happy to linger and natter away I still had a fair way to go, and conscious of the coming hills and the risk of cooling muscles I bade Pete and Liz farewell and headed off to catch the group a couple of miles up the road.

  After a lunch stop at Ray’s Diner (orange flavour malt loaf is the new ‘in thing’ and very good it is too) we were off again. The climb out of Hebden Bridge was the one that everyone was fearing. In the event I really enjoyed it. It was long and steady, much like the Alpine climbs seen on the Tour de France, only a lot shorter and without the dramatic hairpins. Phil Liggett, who does Tour commentaries, describes the best climbers as dancing on their pedals. I did a nifty little foxtrot that Phil would have been proud of. Well, that’s my view, and I’m sticking to it. But the day’s excitement wasn’t quite over because after the climbing comes the descending! My Garmin recorded a maximum speed of nearly 52 miles per hour! I literally rode away from all the cars behind me and I think I managed to set off a speed camera. I say ‘think’ because you’ll appreciate that at these speeds, with only a few millimetres of tyre rubber touching the road, looking over my shoulder to see if the camera really was going to flash can be a bit risky.

  Once I slowed as I approached Keighley I realised that I had lost the rest of the group and was on my own. Worse still, my Garmin decided this was a good time to freeze. And to cap it all, the weather gods decided this was an opportunity to try and drown me! There was only one thing for it: another burst of time trialling to Skipton, which was signposted from Keighley, with fingers crossed that I could find the hotel easily. What I hadn’t realised until it was too late was that the signed route led onto a very busy dual carriageway. With limited visibility, no lights on my bike and lots of spray from the passing traffic this was a high-heart-rate stretch until I eventually reached the roundabout at the end of the dual carriageway. Whereupon the rain stopped, the traffic disappeared, and irritatingly my Garmin decided to wake up again! Well, at least I had no difficulty finding my hotel.

  We were spread out across several hotels for the night. I was on my own tonight as Mike, who I should have been sharing with, opted to stay elsewhere. Did I say something wrong, Mike? It seems however that every rain cloud has a silver lining, and I got a room with an emperor-sized bed and en suite facilities complete with jacuzzi and a power shower. As we were spread out over Skipton there was an email and text vote on the choice of dinner venue. The majority vote was to visit a curry house; which I may regret tomorrow. Especially as we’re going to be riding over 90 miles!

  Saturday 22 August 2015, 93 Miles

  Stage 7: The Long One

  After our night spread around Skipton’s hotels and B&Bs we planned to regroup at a square in the town centre. Last night’s curry wasn’t giving me an encore, so I felt fine. My hotel was the furthest away and was probably also the slowest in terms of breakfast service; consequently the group had already set off by the time I reached the rendezvous point. The ever-smiling Ray was on hand to make sure I went the right way – he’s obviously picked up on my navigational weaknesses. He assured me that the group were only a few minutes up the road, so with a fast bit of pursuiting I made the catch after about 5 miles.

  We were now in the Yorkshire Dales and I felt on top of the world. This is spectacular countryside, and as I rolled along I felt completely at one with my surroundings. Riding in places like this made me realise how lucky I am to be able to enjoy them. It never ceases to amaze me that true wilderness on this scale still exists in England.

  Spirits in the group were high, with lots of happy chatter. As we rode up Wharfedale with Pen-y-Ghent on our left the chatter became more and more subdued as the main climb of the day came into view. The climb up through Yockenthwaite and Beckermonds to Oughtershaw was tough ‒ very tough; and long ‒ very long. When we got to the top we all agreed it was the toughest climb since leaving Land’s End. But very satisfying to conquer, especially the last bit that ramped up to at least 20 per cent, which at the end of half an hour’s riding uphill at an average gradient of 12 per cent put my heart rate into a new high! A very high-speed descent which ended with squealing of brakes signalled our arrival at Ray’s Diner for the day’s first refreshment stop.

  We then whizzed along following the route of the historic Settle to Carlisle railway line as the splendour of the North Pennines unfolded on our right and fleeting glimpses of the Lake District appeared on our left. Our route follows a more easterly course so we’re not getting an opportunity to try of some of the iconic climbs of the Lakes. Perhaps that’s a good thing!

  I rode most of the way with Nick, who is also from Suffolk and works as an engineer. His speciality is cranes, the massive ones you find in docks that move containers to and from ships. Nick was riding a rather nice titanium-framed bike. He did seem rather envious of my Impulso and at one point when we stopped so I could take a photo, he was very quick at offering to hold my bike. I’ll have to keep my eyes on him.

  Our lunch stop was accompanied by heavy rain so we all put on our wet weather gear. By the time we had finished, and with perfect timing, the rain had stopped so off came the wet weather gear and we were away again. We arrived at Melmerby village to find it ready to welcome the Tour of Britain which passes through in about two weeks’ time. Yellow bikes were everywhere!

  The rest of the ride was fast and largely uneventful; the only real point of note was a last steep climb out of Brampton and a delightful ride along the line of Hadrian’s Wall to our destination at Birdoswald and the site of Milecastle Fort. We had finished the longest day and were now over halfway to John O’Groats. Yaay! Tonight’s accommodation was a sort of youth hostel, with us as the only occupants. We were in dormitories with bunk beds, so the home comforts were fairly basic. The hostel was well equipped with washing machines though, so there a chance to wash all my cycling kit. Martyn disappeared early in the evening and returned with fish and chips for everyone. With a good supply of wine on hand we ended up having a very convivial evening.

  Sunday 23 August 2015, 75 Miles

  Stage 8: You Take the High Road…

  … and I’ll take the low road, and I’ll be in Scotland afore you. So went the song as we rode away from Birdoswald. With the sun shining, everyone was in high spirits and we set off facing the prospect of a shorter day but with a similar amount of climbing to yesterday. Martyn’s morning briefing text made no mention of the route’s level of difficulty, which was a cause for concern for some. As it turned out we need not have worried.

  Our first order of business was a photocall at the Scottish border. Rab and Davy, who hail from Stirling, soon caught up with us and got very excited. Davy used the halt to have a comfort break, on the English side of the border. I was also sure that I heard them both promise us a wee malt tonight to mark their homecoming. We’ll see.

  Once again the quality of the landscape was the high point of the day: at least as good as yesterday’s, but much more enclosed with deep valleys picking their way through and round the hills. Our route took us into Eskdale, which is truly spectacular: classic Scottish Borders countryside. Leaving Langholm the ‘fun’ really started as we ascended the first of the day’s four main climbs. These are not especially steep, but at around 2 miles apiece they are quite long. The trick is to choose the right gear at the start and then pedal at a steady, constant pace to the top. The long sweeping roads with open bends meant that on the downhill sections I was able to get into top gear and go full gas. The only challenge was the quality of the road surface, but with so few cars around the full
width of the road was there to be used.

  Part way along we started to see a lot of other cyclists and realised that we had come across a sportive: the Ken Laidlaw Challenge. Some of the sportive riders seemed a bit annoyed by the sight of our group riding at a good pace but not part of ‘their’ event. With eight consecutive days’ riding we were easily able match their pace. We had the last laugh, though. Just south of Ettrick, Ray had opened the latest branch of his Diner and was waiting to refuel us. While we were standing around at the roadside several of the sportive competitors swung over, thinking that it was their feed station. That was about 500 yards further along the road, so we had a bit more fun when they realised what the situation was.

  In no time at all we were passing by Innerleithen and arrived in Peebles well ahead of schedule. Although it had been dry today, in several places the road surfaces were very muddy so we went in search of a car wash to give our bikes a clean. We soon found a garage with both a drive-thru and a pressure hose. No prizes for guessing which one we used. Then it was off to the Tontine Hotel to check in and enjoy a shower.

  Monday 24 August 2015, 65 Miles

  Stage 9: Across Another Very Big Bridge

  Today looked like being a relatively easy day’s riding, so we decided to take it easy. Well, it would have been rude not to! A leisurely roll out of Peebles through some gentle countryside soon brought us to the outskirts of Edinburgh. The only incident of note on the way was that the group claimed I jumped a red light. I’m sure it was green; but on reflection the green may have been for pedestrians. PC Brown, who I am sharing a room with again, is going to give me an official caution this evening.

  A quick vote, and we elected to stop for a coffee at the first café we saw. This turned out to be at the Hillend Ski Centre. Now, those readers who know the area can probably guess what comes next. A hill. But not any old hill. A very steep hill. So steep, that before reaching the café the road transforms itself into a staircase. Undeterred we pedalled onwards. By common consent the gradient was the steepest since leaving Land’s End. The sight of us, a group of Lycra-clad cyclists mimicking the skiers as we posed for some photographs, caused a lot of comment amongst the real skiers. Hannah, one of our group and who didn’t join us for coffee, later offered to talk to me. She’s a mental health nurse. Oh, and by the way, the coffee was unremarkable.

  We then skirted round the western fringes of Edinburgh which, having lived in the city, was interesting for me; how much has changed. Before long we were whizzing into South Queensferry with the iconic rail and road bridges providing the backdrop for the day’s main photocall. I had hoped to meet Clare, who was once my stepmother-in-law (work that one out!) but the vagaries of mobile phone communication whilst on the move meant we missed each other by mere minutes. After the paparazzi had done their stuff we rode across the road bridge, which was a spectacular experience; all the more so because the sun was shining, so the views were outstanding.

  We were soon in the Kingdom of Fife and Ray’s Diner was up and running. After refuelling on some excellent mini chilli pasties, a banana, some malt loaf and a handful of Jelly Babies (for mental comfort, you’ll understand) we were off again. We then caused a minor diplomatic incident, involving a road closure and a pavement, some temporary fencing, two very vocal pensioners and a Scottie dog. There are certain words and phrases that transcend the barriers of language and culture. I’m guessing that we won’t be receiving an invitation to come back to Kinross.

  Once international relations were restored we set off again, seeking further opportunities to bond with our Celtic brethren. Arriving well ahead of schedule at Bridge of Earn we decided to stop for a drink. Spotting a pub at the roadside which seemed to offer all that we would need, we pulled over, propped our bikes up and went inside. The place was totally empty but the lights in the bar were on, which suggested it was open for business. A man, presumably the landlord, eventually appeared from the back of the establishment, took one look at us and said he didn’t serve cyclists! He did however hint that there might be another pub in the town where we would be welcome, but he didn’t know if it was open. Our request for some directions was met with a surly thrust of his chin. How nice.

  Faced with such a friendly welcome we headed on to Perth, where once again we were spread over several B&Bs. We arranged to meet again later and then went our separate ways. Rumours of Italian food for dinner are hopefully true. Let’s hope the service is rather more friendly.

  Tuesday 25 August 2015, 67 Miles

  Stage 10: A Day in the Mountains

  Rather like the Tour de France, today was the first proper day in the mountains. As we rode northwards I was reminded of the Tour as it approaches the Pyrenees. Okay, we’re not talking about the same heights, but the gradients are comparable. As we rolled out of Perth we passed the historic Palace at Scone where Scottish monarchs have traditionally been crowned. Rab and Davy put me right on my pronunciation: it’s ‘Scoon’, not ‘Scone’. Suitably chastened I decided to listen rather more and talk rather less about the attractions we would pass en route.

  Slowly, indeed almost imperceptibly, we climbed from Perth towards Blairgowrie. A following wind meant that we fairly whizzed along. Then, leaving Blairgowrie, it all changed. A steep climb out of the town, which I vaguely recall is linked to a geological fault line, brought us to Ray’s Diner. After this it was every rider for themselves as we headed towards the Spital of Glenshee and the main climb of the day, The Cairnwell (Warren #65). A quick photocall followed by a tightening of my shoe fasteners, and it was time to choose a low gear and pedal steadily upwards for the next 5 miles. At a maximum of 12 per cent the climb isn’t particularly steep, but its length, which as an East Anglian I am not used to, coupled with a headwind, meant that sustaining forward motion was a challenge. Interestingly, as the climb continued the challenge became rather more mental than physical. I rode through the last stretch, the toughest 400 yards I’ve ridden for a long time, by aiming, mentally and physically, at one roadside snow post after another. The ‘Welcome to Aberdeenshire’ sign at the top was certainly very welcome.

  The Glenshee Ski Centre café was a convenient place to regroup and warm up with a hot chocolate, as it was distinctly chilly at the top. Then we clipped into our pedals for the descent. I had hopes of setting a new personal best on the descent (my current record stands at 54.2 mph) but unfortunately the stiff headwind put paid to that. A real shame, since this is a fabulous descent with smooth, wide open roads, sweeping bends and excellent visibility for oncoming traffic. Sheep are the only real hazard. Maybe I’ll return one day to try again. Or maybe not!

  We dropped into the Dee Valley, pausing for a brief top-up at the Braemar branch of Ray’s Diner, and then we swept along through the ancient Caledonian Pine forest on either side of the river. I had phoned ahead to Balmoral to see if we could call in for a cuppa, but unfortunately Her Majesty was out walking her corgis. To amuse ourselves along the way we engaged in a few mind games with a couple of local riders who had the temerity to overtake us. We let them have their moment of glory and then upped the pace and left them for dust. All too soon we were freewheeling into Ballater and looking for our base for the night.

  The front door of our B&B sported a ‘cyclist-friendly’ sticker so I didn’t have to worry about too much diplomacy in this part of Caledonia. Once more we were spread across several B&Bs in Ballater, and the consensus was to have another curry for dinner. India on the Green was the curry house of choice. Well, it was the only curry house available. We all met in the pub next door for a pre-dinner drink before adjourning to the restaurant, where owing to a misunderstanding, we hadn’t made a booking. As we trouped through the door, the manager’s expression changed from one of delight to one of concern. He promised to try and fit us in but said the service might be a bit slow as he was expecting to be quite busy. This wasn’t a problem from our perspective. As it turned out we only saw two other customer
s and they both called in for takeaways. Our food was excellent, with a lovely selection of tasty dishes served by the waiters with great flourish.

  Wednesday 26 August 2015, 88 Miles

  Stage 11: Friends, Old and New

  For the first time since leaving Land’s End, breakfast this morning was a rather subdued event. There was little chatter, just the occasional ‘Good morning’ with grunted replies. Whenever eye contact was made, it wasn’t held. Everyone was in their own world, mentally focussing on a point about 20 yards ahead of their front wheel. What brought the group together this morning were eight letters; two short words: ‘The Lecht’. Today was the climb that everyone had been fearing from the outset when we left Land’s End. Opinions were united that the climb was going to be tough – tougher than anything we had faced so far. But no one could anticipate how hard. So it was a somewhat reluctant peloton that rolled out of Ballater, bound for Conon Bridge 88 miles away.

  Simon Warren has this to say about The Lecht, which is Number 66 in his climber’s bible:

  “The Lecht can lay claim to being the most formidable-looking climb in Britain, lying like a giant staircase across a barren land, a petrifying slope of tarmac bisecting an empty moor. You know you’re in trouble when a road has a ski station at its summit. In all its glory, laid out before you, the Lecht strikes fear into the heart.”4

  A short, sharp, warm-up climb at 20 per cent was the prelude to the main event. Then it was a long, steady 1 mile ascent to the first false summit. A rapid descent through Cock Bridge brought us to a wall of a climb; the easiest bit was 20 per cent, the hairpin bends at the start were steeper still. Once through the hairpins it was time to dig deep, find a low gear and then set and hold a steady pace for the next mile and a half. The ski lifts in the distance marked the summit and slowly, ever so slowly, they gradually got closer and closer.