My phone alarm sounded reveille at 4:30. After another shower to shake off the last vestige of sleep and a cup of hotel instant coffee to wring out that last drop of daze, I met Matt at the lobby to continue our journey.
Knowing that we would be leaving well before the hotel’s breakfast offerings were available, I scouted out a Co-op in Avonmouth for our breakfast stop about 15 miles further on the course. Though the morning air was brisk, it was rejuvenatingly fresh, and the skies were brilliantly clear. Taking in the good fortune, I rode with Expat Matt to reach our breakfast stop, passing various verdant farm fields in the English countryside.
After a short climb, we entered the industrial and warehousing districts surrounding the port of Bristol. Crossing over the River Avon, we turned off course to find that Co-op. Upon arrival, we stumbled onto a Parsons Bakery right next door. Upon entering Parsons, the fragrance of fresh baked breads and pastries, both sweet and savory, permeated in the air, entering through my nose and into the pores of my skin, boosting my morale. Skipping the traditional continental offerings of croissants and pain au chocolat, I chose a couple of sausage rolls, the iconic British breakfast of savory minced pork baked in puff pastry. Paired with a mediocre cup of cappuccino, it was the closest to heaven in Avonmouth.
With full bellies, we made our way toward Severn Bridge to cross into Wales. The short trip to the bridge on a Monday morning meant accommodating truck traffic entering and leaving the port. Fortunately, the route choice afforded dedicated bike paths and sidewalks to separate ourselves from truck drivers on the clock. On the bridge we rode on a protected bike path to enter Wales.
Street signs turned immediately bilingual to accommodate English as the second language. Riding past Chepstow, we entered the Wye Valley National Landscape. After waiting for Expat Matt at the first summit, we decided to split up. The soft, clean bed and sausage rolls did wonders for me and I wanted to go as far as I could on my tank of high spirits.
Continuing my climb toward the road’s summit by Beacon Hill under the forest’s shaded canopy as shelter against a surprisingly unforgiving sun, I chanced upon a road sign pointing toward Tintern Abby. William Wordsworth wrote in “Lines Composed a Few Miles above Tintern Abby”:
But oft, in lonely rooms, and mid the din
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them,
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart,
And passing even into my purer mind
With tranquil restoration.
Being on the bike, whether for brevets, with friends on a beer or pastry ride or with my two sons on our mountain bikes, has afforded me to see nature’s wonders while partaking in spontaneous conversations on ancient Greek’s middle voice, differences between antenna vs amplifier gain or the sublime elegance of Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos. These memories have sustained me “in the hours of my weariness” in finding “tranquil restoration” as I tread through that dull portion of life imprisoned in my black Prius as I commuted between home and office, then office to home, in that petty pace of a thoughtless pendulum. Wordsworth found release in his solitary wanderings. My spiritual freedom is born out new discoveries of places while sharing the joy, if in the form of suffering through a ride long or short, with friends, both old and newly made.
After a quick descent to the valley floor, I re-emerged in the presence of people and cars en masse as I entered the market town of Monmouth, a solitary sentry standing at the border with England defending Welsh identity. Monnow Bridge and its gate tower greeted me as I rolled down the town’s high street of shops and businesses. During my route research, I found Coffi Lab Monmouth that would provide a selection of civilized food and coffee drinks to sustain the day. Not far down the street I spotted the day’s Welsh Mecca.
Another cyclist in gear and garb resembling a randonneur was sitting at an outside table. As he was on his phone, I left him alone and entered the café to order. I spied on their offering of porridge, English for oatmeal, accompanied by coffee, freshly squeezed orange juice and a croissant for my indulgences. Looking for seating outside to be close to my bike, that rider was off his phone and offered the empty seat at his table. After the initial interrogatives, he revealed he too was a LEJOGer. His Received Pronunciation with noticeable flat vowels suggested a Southern Hemisphere upbringing. Not long into our conversation I learned his name was Chris, an Australian now residing in the UK.
I was quite underwhelmed by the porridge. Rather than the traditional boiled grain fit for quakers and horses, the Lab’s modern interpretation altered it into a cup of muesli with milk. Still, I enjoyed my other indulgences while sharing a conversation with Chris about our respective LEJOG adventures up to this point. Like the rest of us, he complained about not having enough sleep.
We mounted our bikes and crossed the border to re-enter England and pedal toward the Hereford control. The profile of the land changed dramatically, becoming more rolling as we passed hay fields ploughed and cultivated over centuries of human toil. Few trees except those planted by farmers, we reached the ADSA gas station in the city center for our receipts collection and resupply.
Leaving the city, we again rode through more pastoral countryside, now entering Shropshire. In the distance I saw hills, perhaps the same that inspired AE Houseman to write “What are those blue remembered hills….?” The temperature started to rise, increasing our water consumption. He suggested a quick stop at the Tesco Express on Ludlow’s high street ahead of the actual control further down the course.
By mid-afternoon just outside Ludlow, Chris began to wane and decided to pull off somewhere to grab a quick ditch nap. Still feeling relatively fresh, I continued on by myself, chasing the clouds that roamed above me like airy sheep grazing on an azure plain.
But not too long after our separation, my stomach began to feel queasy, marking the start of my rando witching hour. If Achilles’ mother held his heel when dipping him into the River Styx, my mom held my stomach. Any misstep in food selection, I would start to feel bloated. I stopped at a local butcher shop to refill my water bottles and to take a breather. Still my stomach churned, now accompanied by an onset of acid reflux. The combined effect forced me to back off on my crank.
By the time I reached the Morrison’s Supermarket at the Market Drayton control, I decided to rest longer to let my stomach settle down while trying to take in as many calories as possible. Not long after, Chris arrived at the control with another group of LEJOGers. He invited me to join them as it was led by a strong rider. I took the offer and tried to hold on, but my legs were not having any of it. As the lead rider powered over a small rise, I lost grip of the train and dropped back, physically drained.
When reaching the market town of Nantwich, I tried to distract myself by appreciating its medieval town center with the iconic black and white timber frame buildings.
As night’s darkness encroached and overthrew daylight, the physical suffering turned into emotional distress. Passing through the town of Winsford, I spotted New Golden Chief, a Chinese takeaway shop. When I would find myself in these mental and physical ruts, salty and savory food would often be the antidote that revived me.
When my order was brought out, I immediately dug into the rice expecting to scarf it down like a ravenous jackal. I was rather disappointed after the first scoop. The rice was hard and the soup had some flavor other than hot or sour. From disappointment I became distraught. Meanwhile, several bicycles with their glaring red rear lights whizzed past the Chinese takeaway, leaving me to feel left behind.
I mounted my bike and marched on into the pitch-black night through unlit roads and lanes, not to pursue, just to persist. I felt an overwhelming sense of defeat as I fixated on my present condition best articulated in a Shakespeare quatrain:
When in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes
I all alone beweep my outcast state
And trouble deaf heav’n with my bootless cries
And look upon myself and curse my fate.
I made my way to Warrington, a suburb between the two hegemons of the North: Manchester, known for its soccer teams, and Liverpool, where the Beatles were from. I found some solace pedaling through empty city streets unmolested by cars as I navigated through its twists and turns. As I counted down the miles to Golborne, the 2nd overnight control, I began crafting my abandonment speech. It wasn’t “fun” anymore with acid reflux and stomach churns now at their peak. With Michael officially out after all our planning and plotting to finish together, the lone endeavor seemed pointless. The wheels on my bike had officially fallen off.
The original plan was to push all the way to Lancaster another 42 miles further down and stay at the Holiday Inn slightly off the course. Just making it to the control broke me. I had to settle on writing off a non-refundable hotel stay.
At Golborne, a middle-aged woman with blonde hair and the trim frame of an endurance athlete welcomed me. My prepared speech was no less resounding than Churchill’s or Gladstone’s: I’m abandoning. In a matter-of-fact voice she counter offered: “Why don’t you eat, clean up, and sleep. I’ll stamp your brevet card now and we’ll discuss tomorrow.” She directed me to where the food was, the selection of which was slightly better than at Mark but not much more encouraging. Expat Matt with whom I started the day and Mimo, the other RUSA rando whom I met at the start, were at a table. I joined and continued to “beweep my outcast state” and “curse my fate” to DNF. I drew a couple of sympathetic wordless nods. It was not that they were deaf but just mute from their exhaustions.
When the control worker walked by me, I intercepted her and pestered her again with my queries about finding a rental car agency in Manchester. Her demeanor became markedly irritated and with an insistent and stern voice in her retort: “Just go sleep and we can make arrangements tomorrow!” I wasn’t going to argue. After collecting my drop bag, I took a nice warm shower and found an empty air mattress, hoping all this would end.
- Distance – 178 miles / 286.1 km
- Elevation – 8,855 ft / 2,699 m