Journey from the End of the World

A Journey from the End of the World

I am no angel, heaven knows. I have been to South East Asia, and I
flew. Not being an angel, the wings on which I flew were not angel's
wings, but wings of aluminium courtesy of messrs Boeing, hurled through
the sky by a hundred tons of kerosene. I wasn't there, of course, when
the tsunami struck on boxing day, but I was still moved by it. So
moved, we feel the need to do something - something to show we too are
touched, that we acknowledge our common humanity. But what? Why this?
This, because this is what we can do. But still there feels to be
something slightly twisted and bizarre about driving to the end of the
world in order to ride a bike in order to raise money in order to
rebuild villages - villages of which we only really know because so
many of us hurl ourselves through the sky in kerosene burning
monstrosities - which are going to be destroyed in any case within a
generation if we don't stop global warming. Ethical behaviour in the
modern world is so complex and difficult.

These are gloomy and philosophical thoughts with which to start a ride
report, I know. I plead in mitigation that six forty-five in the
morning is a gloomy and philosophical time of day, especially in
February. Especially in February on a day with wind howling in the
treetops and the roads slick and slippery with ice.

The end of the world as we know it is something of a gloomy (if not a
philosophical[1]) place at the best of times. 9 o'clock on a Sunday
morning with the wind howling up Loch Ryan, blasting white crests off
the top of each wave, is not the best of times. It's not the best
of times to be standing around in skin tight cycling clothes for half
an hour, with the temperature a few degrees above zero and intense
wind chill; but stand around we did. Because Andrew, who was to ride
with us, had been first on the scene of a nasty road crash (a young
woman, alone, lost control on ice at high speed) and had had to wait
for an ambulance to arrive.

So we sorted out bikes and shoes and clothing and I handed out radios
and endured the obligatory ribbing about putting a battered cotton bar
bag on my beautiful carbon bike. Gradually we assembled down at the
passenger terminal. Finally, Andrew and his brother Jim arrived,
photographs were taken, and we set off at 9.45am: a grand convoy of
eight bikes, one tandem, an enormous van and two support cars.

And the first bit out through the streets of Stranraer was remarkably
easy.

The first back road we had planned to take we knew to be closed, so we
had no option but stay on the A75 for a while. Indeed, given the
degree of ice on the roads, we had talked about possibly staying on it
all the way to Newton Stewart. Now the A75, if you see its
Dumfrieshire end, is a single carriageway road right enough, but a
big, wide single carriageway road with sweeping curves and long
sightlines. Not so in the farthest West. Here it's a relatively narrow
road with dips, twists, blind bends. The wind was on our left
shoulders, and most of the time was actually even a little bit
helpful. Soon even the tandem was bowling along at fourteen miles
an hour. Castle Kennedy flashed by, and Dunragit.

And then the trucks started. One of the deep joys of the A75 is that
every so often a ferry docks at Stranraer and disgorges sixty or
eighty forty tonne artics onto the road in bunch. Just before Glen
Luce just such a convoy caught up with us, and went hurtling past our
ears. In the already difficult wind conditions this wasn't all that
funny, and it was with some relief we turned into the village.

If we had realised what the next stage had to offer, the relief might
have been somewhat less.



In which a well conditioned Man of War...

It started gradually enough. Through the village there was wind, and a
gradual climb up North Street, past a tiny but beautifully maintained
building - smaller than your living room - proudly bearing the sign
'North Road Gospel Hall'. Two more turns in the road and the wind hit
us, tearing brutally down off the hill ahead. The forecast had been
for eight gusting nine - 'in which a well conditione man of war might
just carry close reefed topsails and courses in a chase'. I thought of
the men on the yards of that man of war, fighting recalcitrant canvas
in the screaming wind, and felt that perhaps our lot wasn't so
bad. But the Tandemistas - Terry and Ken, the oldest of us and riding
by far the heaviest vehicle - were off and pushing at once. Above the
railway bridge they tried again, and I and a couple of others hung
back with them, trying to encourage them. There was very little I
could do to offer practical help, and I watched with anxiety as our
speed declined to 2.6 mph. I thought of the sixty odd miles still to
go...

At last it was clear that, despite their best attempts, the
combination of hill and wind were too much, and they stopped and
loaded the tandem into the van. I headed after the others up the
hill.

Now I'm not a great climber anyway, but that was the first of the
truly gruelling climbs of the day. I played the little psychological
tricks one plays, working out the etymology of the placenames we
passed and inferring from them the dates of the settlements. At last I
came to the caravan park at Whitecairn (scots and gaelic elements
therefore post thirteenth century, and in all probability post
sixteenth) There to see a row of static caravans rather aptly called
'Aspen', shaking and shuddering in the icy blast.


The Uses of a Helmet

The rest of the bunch were sheltering in the lee of a farm shed, and I
rode past assuming they were just waiting for me and expecting them to
follow. When they didn't, I turned my bike across the road and got off
it... and was promptly blown off my feet. The wind in which I'd been
cycling was so strong it was difficult to stand. After a brief regroup
and some more photos we headed east towards the head of the Minnoch
Water, along a pretty ropey singletrack road across the moor.

Now, people who are familiar with my thoughts on cycling will know that
my
general attitude is that a helmet on a road bike about is as much use
as a paper tissue in a hurricane. This journey, however,
demonstrated one important use for a helmet: my skull cap kept blowing
loose, and for quite a lot of the time I was cycling along actively
holding it on. Those with helmets at least kept their hats on their
heads.

The wind was more or less at right angles to our path now. Gareth, who
is a member of the Scottish Cycling team, was riding with a beautiful
set of Mavic wheels with bladed spokes, and he was really struggling
to keep his front wheel straight - each turbulent gust would turn it
differently. My bar bag was causing a similar effect. And all of us
were cycling with a permanent lean of some twenty degrees to windward,
which made the occasional wind shadows even more interesting. Under
those circumstances, eight feet of potholed tarmac littered with
fallen branches is not a very wide track for a bike.

And yet spirits were good. I was still anxious about the average
speed, but people seemed to be more joking about and laughing at the
antics of the wind than cursing them. And before so very long we were
into the relative shelter of the forest and descending into the valley
of the Minnoch water. The weather was, on the whole, getting
nicer. Not so cold; I even took my hat off for a short while, and
unzipped my gilet. About Shalloch on Minnoch a thin cold rain blew
in, and I dropped back to the van to change into my waterproof. And then
off down the Girvan road at a good speed, into Newton Stewart, where
Sally and Lisa had prepared us a truly epic amount of cake and coffee.
Most excellent.


I Lift up Mine Eyes (and other parts)

We got back on the road fairly quickly. The climb from Newton Stewart
up to Clatteringshaws is one we've done a number of times as a club,
and is a road we like - long, scenic, but nowhere too steep. On the
whole, a fairly easy climb. And the direction is only just north of
east, so I had some hope the wind might help a little. The Tandemistas
were up for it, too, but I persuaded them to leave the tandem in the
van until we reached the top of the climb. I'm glad I did.

The road out of Newton Stewart through Minnigaff was pleasant and fast,
and the rain seemed to have passed through. But as soon as we turned
onto the the A712 it was clear we were in for another gruelling
climb. For a while Marcus and I cycled along together, while the
faster people vanished up the road and Andrew and his brother Jim
dropped behind. But before long I realised I couldn't really stay with
Marcus, I was holding him back; and also I was bothered about leaving
Andrew as Jim's main support. So I circled back to them, and started
to climb with them.

It's time to introduce Jim more fully. He's not a cyclist. The
furthest he had cycled in his life before this ride was twenty five
miles, and not under conditions like this. But he had been in Thailand
when the tsunami had rolled in, and he more than anyone else wanted to
make this ride. He was struggling. I don't blame him for struggling, I
wasn't a lot better. And the climb was long. But at the same time the
scenery was breathtaking. A rainbow hovered over the glen almost all
the way up, bright sun from begind blasting into a thin rain which
wasn't intense enough to be wetting, but was just sufficient to
refract the light. To the north the white peaks of the Merrick and the
hills of the Dungeon were sharp against the intensely blue sky. and so
we rode on, steadily upwards, some of the time with me supporting
Andrew and Jim, sometimes Marcus, sometimes others. As we came to the
top of the first crest it was me, and as I rolled over the top I felt
I had done my bit for virtue and it was time to be selfish. People
need morale encouragement on climbs, I thought, not on the
descents. And I love descending. So I blasted off down the road a bit,
and then felt guilty and dawdled for them to catch up, and they didn't
so I stopped and waited. And after I'd waited a few minutes I got on
the radio back to Dougie in the van.

Jim had sugar crashed, and Dougie and Andrew were almost literally
forcing energy gels into him. I rode back up the hill to them, and
started out again with them. After a relatively short distance of
undulating terrain we came to the rest of the group waiting for us on
the Grey Mare's Tail bridge. Jim just carried on cycling. He wasn't
going to stop; he was going to see it through. A quick photocall and
we all followed after in a group, past wild goats grazing very
domestically at the roadside. It took us a susprisingly long time to
catch up with Jim. Up here on the watershead the views had opened up,
the huge black mass of the Cairnsmore of Fleet to the south of us, and
the snow covered ridges of upper Galloway to the north. The rainbow
was gone now, but the sky was clear. It was still windy, but the wind
didn't seem anything like the fury it had been. The miles ground on,
and Clatteringshaws was in sight, and we dropped down to the bridge
over the Black Water. We'd passed the half-way point of our ride. It
felt like we'd done the climb, we'd made it. Little did we know.


Dam!

The road up from the Black Water bridge to the top of the dam at
Clatteringshaws is short - it cannot be more than three hundred yards,
curving up a rock-cut defile. As we came round the bend off the bridge
the wind hit us like a wall.

I struggled with the climb, just doing what I could do, not really
paying much attention to what everyone else was doing. One
particularly strong gust forced me right off the road, and my front
wheel dropped off the edge of the tarmac just as a range-rover came
around the corner behind me. After it had passed I stood just shaking
with adrenaline reaction for a few minutes, unwilling to start again,
lacking the confidence that I could hold the bike on the road in the
wind. But it passed, and I started up again. Within fifty yards round
the next rock cut bend I found Liam collapsed at the roadside with
cramp, and Steve, his father, tending him. Liam was the youngest of
us, and had done well to get so far. I spoke to them but didn't
stop. I was doing all I could. And then quite suddenly I'd reached the
top and the white capped wind-driven waters of Clatteringshaws were on
my left, stretching away into the blue and white hills. Suddenly it
wasn't so bad. Despite the chill wind the bright sunshine was actually
warm. I rode the last half mile into the Clatteringshaws carpark,
joining the others; and we all clapped Liam as he rode in five minutes
later.


The OBE

At Clatteringshaws Liam put his machine into the van (as, indeed, he'd
planned to), and the Tandemistas got theirs out. At Clatteringshaws
also, I traded my waterproof for my gilet, and fired up my own secret
morale weapon: the OBE, or On Bike Entertainment. 5Gb of my favourite
music, which sits in my back pocket. As we rolled out away from
Clatteringshaws, and I listened to this or that pleasant tune, taking
in the sun on the changing scenery, life was feeling better. And then,
out of silence, a rich, deep voice sang out in my ears

'We are going, heaven knows where we are going, we know we're
going...'

Osibisa's Woyaya, one of my favourite ever tunes. The descent into the
Glenkens was begininning to make itself felt, and I upped the cadence.

'We will get, heaven knows how we will get there, we know we will...'

Click, click, click, up through the gears, hurling the bike down the
snaking road, just a perfect day for a ride.

'It will be hard, we know, and the road will be muddy and rough, but
we'll get there...'

And we would. The miles were streaming by, we were coming down out of
the wind, the landscape was becoming richer and greener. When the song
ended I clicked off the OBE. It had done its job. I was riding alone
now, having got away from the slower group; and with the speed edging
up to thirty seven miles per hour I was beginning to hope I'd come up
with the fast group.

And then suddenly, round a bend, there they were. Gareth's back tyre
had punctured. I got on the radio back to Dougie in the van to order
up a spare back wheel - not bad organisation, here! Marcus and Steve
and Andrew and Jim and the Tandemistas came steaming past, the
Tandemistas now looking like an unstoppable behemoth. The van rolled
up. I knew Gregg and Gavin could catch up, and that I couldn't stay
with them if they were trying, so I sprinted off down after the others
and we sailed into New Galloway en peloton.

At New Galloway the Tandemistas headed south down the loch. It was as
far as they had planned to come, and in the conditions they'd done well.

The rest of us crossed the river at Ken Bridge, and started to climb
again, past Balmaclellan, over the watershead towards Corsock. I'm not
going to bore you with another account of a climb. Suffice it that the
wind was still fierce, though less so, and still unhelpful, and that I
was struggling. Once the road started to level out at the top I eased
up and let Andrew and Jim come up with me. We were now past fifty
miles - more than twice as far as Jim had ridden before - but he was
still riding doggedly on. The ride down into Corsock was very
pleasant. The sun was in the west now, and the shadows starting to
grow, but the sky was almost entirely clear. This area of the upper
Urr valley has one of the few remnants of lowland crofting - lots of
very small farms and holdings along both sides of the road, making
this relatively inhospitable patch of high moor more populous - and
more homely - than many of the more fertile parts of Galloway. And the
road - new tarmac, gloriously smooth. Then into Cosock village, and
another epic quantity of cake, this time courtesy of Janet.

Wunderbar!


High Milage Dementia

Leaving Corsock for the last phase the feeling was definitely
good. The wind was lessening and was now emphatically behind us, the
climbs much less stiff, and the end of the day was in sight. And now
that we were descending again from the hills towards the sea, for
every metre we had to climb there was more than a metre of
descent. The sun was now low, but it was decidedly warmer than the
morning, and the average speed was creeping up as the miles ticked
away. It was really pleasant riding, and it was also really pleasant
to realise that I wasn't all in, I wasn't hurting, that I would reach
the end with a good few miles still in my legs - a very different
story from last summer's audax. The bike - I was riding my Dolan - was
a complete joy, just very nice to ride, although I had a little
soreness in my lumbar region which indicates to me I still have the
bars a fraction low.

We rode down to the A75 at Crocketford, a village which used to be
known as Nine Mile Bar for a fairly simple and obvious
reason. However, as we immediately diverged from the A75 again,
turning off on minor roads towards Shawhead and Terregles, our own route
was a bit further. A strange euphoria had crept into the mood, which
Steve
diagnosed as 'high milage dementia'. We were tired, but we were moving
fairly briskly, and talking all sorts of nonsense. Andrew was talking
the worst nonsense of all: he kept insisting we'd finish before
sunset, although in fact the sun was already setting. I stopped for a
moment to clip my back light on, and soon after I dropped back to the
van to pick up my lumicycles and to change the lenses of my shades for
clear ones. Others were doing the same, and consequently the slightly
depleted peloton reformed. We were picking up speed again, dragging
Jim along with us, getting into the twenties on the flat, starting to
do 'through and off'.


Champagne Finish

We were coming down into Dumfries by a (to me) unfamilar route, so I
wasn't certain how far we had to go to the finish. And then Alison's
voice came over the radio. 'Two minutes'. Two minutes to what? We
swept round a bend and there was the Dumfries sign reflecting back the
headlights, and the support cars flashing their headlights at us. We
gathered round the sign. Alison handed Andrew a bottle of champagne,
and started passing plastic glasses around. Andrew popped the cork
clear across the road. Glasses were filled. There was a cheer, and a
toast, and we'd finished. Then it was mount up again and cycle a last
half mile to Andrew and Alison's for more cake, and pasta, and tea,
and good cheer, and mutual congratulations, and generally party
time. 74.5 miles on the clock at an average of 11.9 mph, which given
the conditions wasn't bad. About 1200 raised, although the final
figure isn't in yet. Everyone who set out to do the whole route
completed. Apart from one puncture and a little bit of tuning of Jim's
derailleurs, no technical problems. And organisationally, despite the
delayed start, everything worked.

Most excellent.



Heroes of the Day.

So to end, thanks to the heroes of the day. To Dougie, who could not
ride because of a horribly injured knee, tremendous thanks for driving
the support van all day, steadily keeping in place at the back of the
convoy, supplying energy bars and gels and spare wheels and good
advice, and standing ready to sweep up those who couldn't make it. To
Jock, who was busy this weekend and couldn't ride, but let us his
van. To Janet and Alison, who drove the support cars, took
photographs, supplied cake and tea (and champagne). To Lisa and Sally,
who supplied masses of cake and tea.

And last of all, congratulations to Jim, who rode three times as far
as he'd ever ridden in one day in his life before.



[1] Indeed, the end of the world as we know it may be considered a
peculiarly philosophical place. Consider for example Umberto Eco's
'Island on the Edge of Tomorrow'. However, I put it to you that Eco has
never actually been to Stranraer, and knows not whereof he writes. I
have; and I repeat my assertion that Stranraer, though strange in many
ways, is not in essence philosophical.

--
(Simon Brooke) http://www.jasmine.org.uk/~simon/

[ This mind intentionally left blank ]

On Mon, 14 Feb 2005 21:53:24 +0000, Simon Brooke
wrote:

A Journey from the End of the World

Wow! You write more for one day than I wrote for 5 weeks!

An excellent read. Well done.

I nearly looked at the number of lines and thought, "sod it".

I'm glad I didn't.

--
Jesus was apparently betrayed by 8.3% of his disciples.

Simon Brooke wrote:
A Journey from the End of the World

Epic. I wondered as I started reading whether I would skip over bits,
but remained gripped from start to finish. I'm left in awe and with a
bizarre desire to go for a ride. Not such a good idea given the time and
the amount of "flat sorting" I have to do.

Congratulations on what sounded to be an awesome (If challenging) ride.

Jon

in message , Jon Senior
jon_AT_restlesslemon_DOT_co_DOT_uk ('') wrote:

Simon Brooke wrote:
A Journey from the End of the World

Epic. I wondered as I started reading whether I would skip over bits,
but remained gripped from start to finish. I'm left in awe and with a
bizarre desire to go for a ride. Not such a good idea given the time
and the amount of "flat sorting" I have to do.

Congratulations on what sounded to be an awesome (If challenging)
ride.

It was great. The club mailing list is still buzzing with it, and it has
inspired not only my report but also a ballad, which is he

URL:http://www.stewartry-wheelers.org/wheelers/story/article_25.html

--
(Simon Brooke) http://www.jasmine.org.uk/~simon/

I shall continue to be an impossible person so long as those
who are now possible remain possible -- Michael Bakunin