The A68 Club Rides Again

Four years on, and the headbangers were there again. For this was it, the climax to the year, the culmination of months of preparation. The training (what training?) was done, there was no more time for greasing hubs, polishing spokes, or drilling mudguards. Ahead lay up to four days and nights on the bike and in bus shelters up and down the eastern side of Britain. Of the forty-five or so riders assembled for the start, eight of us had completed the inaugural event, and thought we knew what we were in for, although that left eighteen who had better memories and must be of the opinion that enough was enough. As well as the selection of AUK riders who had heard tales of the 1989 epic, the event had also attracted three riders from Vancouver. As the clock ticked towards the Saturday 10 a.m. start time, the small band of friends and well-wishers bade their farewells and the peloton turned north under doom-laden skies towards .

The first hundred miles or so passed like many other long randonnées - a big bunch going rather faster than was sensible into the persistent headwind, gradually splitting into smaller groups and individuals, stopping from time to time to cape up in the blustery showers, or to stock up at village shops. Early on, Ian Gray blasted off the front, looking for all the world as if he was trying to get to Edinburgh by tea-time. In fact he was only seeking out a vantage point to photograph the group as it flashed by.

All too soon came the junction where my clubmate Dai Harris and I joined the notorious A68. West Auckland, Toft Hill, Tow Law, Castleside, Carterway Heads, Kiln Pit Hill - memories of each sweeping descent and grinding climb flooded back like a recurrent nightmare. In the intervening four years the memory of the full X-certificate horror of this road had faded. Somewhere in the deepest recesses of my mind I remembered vowing never to do this ride again. In addition to the undulations, the howling wind virtually brought me to a standstill on the exposed moorland stretches between the Wear, Derwent and Tyne Valleys. At the back of everyone's mind was the thought that each descent would be a climb in a few hour's time.

A stop for an evening pub meal in Corbridge prepared us for the next stretch to Byreness, including the roller-coaster Roman road and the memorable up-and-down village of West Woodburn. A couple of hours dozing at the Byreness control and I was on my way again, this time on my own, freezing cold in the couple of hours before dawn. At Newtown St Boswells I met Ian and Suzy Gray already powering along in the direction of Potters Bar, and at Galashiels I had an impromptu pavement breakfast outside a newsagents with fixed wheel nutter Mark Webb and geared nutter Rikky Goode.

Turning off the A7 I joined forces with Rikky and we navigated our way through the now sunny lanes towards the control at Dalkieth. Soon I was off again, retracing through Galashiels, Melrose, Newtown St Boswells, and Jedburgh, tackling the climb up to the - border at Carter Bar, and swooping down to the control at Byreness. There was still the huge psychological barrier of the A68 to overcome, and the only way to do it was to take it in small stages, one climb at a time. Slowly I dragged myself through West Woodburn and Ridsdale, and over the many lumps on the Roman road. Then Corbridge, Kiln Pit Hill, Carterway Heads - each was a milestone which could be mentally ticked off - I would never have to take them on again. Not ever. Never. Not for another four years, anyway.

The long steep ascent to Castleside was eventually behind me - one more not to worry about - only to be replaced by the climb to Toft Hill, and the drag out of West Auckland after that. But no hill lasts for ever and at last, late on Sunday evening, checking that no-one was within earshot, I whooped with joy and turned off the A68 onto the B6275. With the A68 behind me, the hard work had been done, and there remained only the five hundred miles to London and then back to Hatfield. Easy-peasy. My bike also seemed to realise that the granny gears could be forgotten, and I picked up speed to thunder through Piercebridge at 50 kph.

At Scotch Corner a strange, but by no means unique thing happened. I would have expected the field to be well strung out by this stage, and hadn't seen anyone except Murdo MacLeod on the 250 km of road since Byreness (although I had spotted Rikky Goode oblivious at the side of the road), and yet within five minutes of my arrival at the control a further six or seven arrived. Explanations on a postcard, please.

Our group set out into the darkness more or less together, but split up as tempting bus shelters took their toll. Nevertheless, I met up with Bernard and Ann Daws again at Northallerton and we pressed on down the A19, conversing on as diverse a range of subject matter as you could imagine, in order to stay alert and awake. In Thirsk we felt some spots of rain and by Easingwold it was teeming down. I needed sleep but couldn't find shelter - in my desperation I curled up on the steps of the public library, and later behind a hay bale in a field. Cold, wet, tired, and hungry, I reached the 24-hour garage at , for life-saving microwaved hot-dogs, coffee and a rest, sitting and napping with other A68 refugees, dripping on the floor between rows of biscuits and motor oil.

It was now light, and I set off with the tandem trike partnership of Pete Gifford and Pat Kenny through Cawood, Selby, and along the never-ending roads to Snaith and Thorne, still without respite from the downpour. The control at Hatfield did not have full facilities, but there was a set of warm, dry clothes in my car and a sleeping bag. I fell asleep straight away and emerged an hour later. Here we could glean news of the rest of the field - only seven had so far started off southward - several had packed - snow was forecast. Organiser Bernard Mawson set me off into the torrent with a stern warning: "You'll have to finish now, there are only six of the originals left - Keith Benton and the Goodbiers have packed." I had made the mistake on the northern leg of not having enough clothing, and made sure I would not make the same mistake on the southern half, taking extra jerseys and longs.

My immediate goal was my parents' house near Gainsborough. I was looking forward to a sleep in a real bed, and home-cooked food in its most literal and nourishing sense. Just as I was coming to Lea Green, I came across Chris Burns, his clubmate, and two Canadians standing at the junction looking at maps and routesheets. I gave them the full benefit of my local knowledge, having lived the first 18 years of my life some 3 miles from the spot, and, pointing them south down the road to Torksey, promptly directed my bike eastwards towards bed, food, and tumble drier. I wonder what they made of that.

Duly thawed, dried, rested and fed, I looked forward to a long spell in the saddle. My lengthy rest would be of no value if it hadn't restored enough strength to build up a cushion of four or five hours for rest during the next two nights. The late afternoon air was fresh after the deluge, and I seemed to be getting a little help from the wind. Ideal conditions for a Lanterne Rouge. A short stop at North Clifton and I was on my way again, making good time to reach Thurlby YHA shortly after dark, and time for thirty minutes shut-eye in the annex booked for the duration of the event.

The next leg was potentially as hard as the A68 - crossing the notorious fenland country east of Peterborough. Dead-straight roads with not a hint of shelter and nothing to take your mind off the monotony of the landscape. If the wind isn't with you, it is your worst enemy. Tonight, however, luck was with me. Crouched over my tri-bars, I sped through Thorney, Whittlesey, and Pondersbridge on a warm starry night. The hours of anguish and toil across seemed an age ago.

The BP Truckstop provided an early breakfast and a chance to chat to fellow trundlers. Someone found a copy of The Daily Mirror with a two-page spread extolling the benefits of cycling - a shapely model told how she kept in shape on a bike, Chris Boardman said it was a cheap way of getting about, and the comprehensive health-giving benefits were listed in detail. Murdo was a bit put out by this. "Where does it say about having to rub cream on your bum?" he demanded. "What about the swollen joints, the damaged nerves in your hands, and the aching neck?" It was here we met Ian and Suzy Gray, and Simon Pedley on their way North. Suzy was suffering with a bad ankle, which however didn't seem to be slowing her down at all.

At exactly 3.30 am on Tuesday morning I set off again in the company of LEL veterans Dave Keirnan and John Seviour. Even as early as that it was light enough to read my routesheet, and for the next few hours we enjoyed a marvellous ride along traffic-free lanes through Huntingdonshire and Hertfordshire, as the sun rose and warmed the air. We were in for a scorcher.

The warm June weather gave me a problem. I had made sure I wouldn't be caught out without enough warm clothing, and had plenty for the southern leg. Now that I wanted to wear the minimum amount of clothing, I had great difficullty in getting the spare togs into my saddlebag. If Oxfam had had a shop on the route they could have benefitted to the tune of a warm jersey and spare pair of lycra longs.

I reach Potters Bar at about 9.30am, but it seemed like the middle of the afternoon, as I had already had 6 hours daylight riding. The control was busy - lots of riders had taken the opportunity to have a long rest here, and the Willesden crew on duty were doing a marvellous catering job.

Soon it was time to retrace our route back. The southern turning point was an important psychological point - I was now on my way home. The sun beat down on me, and after 30km I was starting to feel the effects of a night without sleep, but forced myself to get at least halfway down the 100km to the Alconbury control. After 51km I found a shady tree and settled down for forty winks. Stops to rest were necessarily becoming more and more frequent, and I stopped again before Alconbury, in a village where half a dozen riders were sitting under a tree on a village green, making periodic trips to the village shop for cake and ice-cream.

After Alconbury it was time to face the fens once again, and yet again it wasn't as bad as I know it can be. Through Ramsey Heights (several feet above sea level), Ramsey St Mary, Pondersbridge (change gear here to go over the bridge), and Whittlesey, to turn left in Thorney and tackle the long straight towards Market Deeping. From there it wasn't far to Thurlby and the haven of the YHA. Here the controllers were doing a truly marvellous job - Roy and Lorraine Goodbier, having packed north of the border, had come here to help Don and Nora Campbell, and dispense not only food and drink, but also the Tender Loving Care and encouragement which is so vital on a ride of such a gruelling nature. Unfortunately they could do nothing for William Graham, who got off his Hetchins and decided the pain from his Achilles was just too much. It was a great shame to have got so near the finish and be forced to pack.

I didn't stay long, but set out into the dark, aiming for the village green at Corby Glen, where I planned to sleep for a while, thereby breaking up the next leg. Then disaster struck. A broken Look cleat meant I had to give my foot an extra twist to extricate it from the pedal. The result - a twisted left knee. It soon became clear that the joint wouldn't take much pressure. This made climbing a difficult exercise, and here I was on the road from Ancaster to Bayards Leap - Lincolnshire's own version of the A68. I struggled on, trying different strategies, pedalling with one leg, pedalling with my foot pointing inwards or outwards, massaging and manipulating the joint, and stopping frequently. None of them had any effect and I was treated to regular doses of sharp excruciating pain.

I was making such slow progress that by now I was in danger of missing the 5 am closing time at the North Clifton control. Rationing myself to 15 mins in the bus shelter at Leadenham, I pressed on down the A17, constantly recalculating average speeds and ETAs. Having got this far, I desperately wanted to finish, even if I caused lasting damage to my knee. Approaching the notorious level crossing at Collingham, I prepared to move into the middle of the road and take it at right angles, but coming up fast from behind was the only car on the road in the East Midlands at that time in the morning, so I had to take the rails at an angle. The result - an upturned bike and a heavy landing on my left knee.

Nevertheless, it looked as though I would reach North Clifton just in time, but as I limped in I was told there was a mistake on the route sheet - the time on the card said 6.02 rather than 5.02 and gave me an extra hour.

I rode the last leg in the company of Dave Lewis and Ann Curran, companions on the PBP two years earlier. Luckily this bit was flat, and my knee complained a little less frequently. We had plenty of time to reach Hatfield, and I took the opportunity to give Dave and Ann a tour of Gainsborough's waterfront. In my youth it was an eminently rideable path along the riverbank, but in the intervening twenty-five or so years the surface had deteriorated and it was now a challenging piece of roughstuff, but nevertheless gave a bit of a change from the unrelenting tarmac of the previous four days.

The ride had kept a little sting in the tail for us. A strong headwind had now blown up, and on the last few miles, along the flat exposed stretch from Sandtoft to Hatfield, we were reminded of how grim the fens could have been.

At 9.00 am on Wednesday we crossed the motorway bridge and entered Hatfield. It seemed such a significant event that we dismounted and posed for photos next to the town sign before creeping the final half mile. Entering the campsite where Bernard was waiting with his rubber stamp at the ready, we contrasted it with the PBP finish - where were the cheering crowds, the blazing sunshine, the inflatable coke cans? It didn't seem to matter - deep down the sense of achievement was at least as great, and the congratulations of the riders who had already finished meant a great deal. After nearly four days riding, it turned out that my time was all of four minutes quicker than four years previously. A new personal best!

Finally, a message to those A68 veterans of 1989 who decided to give it a miss this year: 1993 was