At 4:00AM I rose from bed to begin preparation for the day: a quick shower to help invigorate the consciousness from the outside in followed by a couple cups of coffee from the inside out. Not long Michael and Matt joined for breakfast. LEJOG was not our first rodeo. We’ve all finished PBP and other grand randonnees. We finished breakfast, cleaned up our Airbnb, packed our gear and conducted one final bike inspection. Still inside me I felt that newbie giddiness yearning to cry out like a toddler while experience, the adult in the room, kept that urge muted as I went about my morning business.
Unlike US events with start times that would make even roosters complain, Andy was an enlightened organizer – 7:00AM start. We locked up the Airbnb, mounted our bikes and headed toward Land’s End into the chill morning air under a canopy of a surprisingly clear blue sky. At the Land’s End visitor’s center, we sought out Andy to have our brevet cards stamped.
I joined a group of randos to have our photos taken by that iconic white “Land’s End” signpost to document the start of this journey. About 5 minutes before 7:00, 90 randonneurs gathered with the sun now over the horizon splashing its warm glow on our faces. In addition to Michael, Matt and me, we met 2 other RUSA randos, Mimo from DC Randonneurs and Bill from Indiana Randonneurs, and briefly celebrated this occasion with warm greetings and the obligatory start photo.
In the excitement, Andy lost track of time and finally waved us off at 7:05.
As we doubled backed on a slight climb passing through Sennen, we made a bee line toward Penzance. Rolling green fields on both sides were broken up by Cornish hedges, property boundary markers made of stone-faced earth banks. As the sun progressively climbed higher, the skies remained blue and bright. We hoped it would foretell better weather than was previously experienced in the UK that summer. A month prior to the start, our weather checks, confirmed by local friends, provided a bleak outlook of a cold, wet summer.
About 75% of the peloton managed to stay together as we dropped into Penzance and followed the Cornish coastline. Being still early on Sunday morning, few cars roamed about as we cut through the urban setting built up to support various beach resorts for British summer holiday makers.
Leaving Marazion, the “fun” began as we turned inland. The dominant feature of the landscape abruptly transitioned from the rolling rises and drops into much more violent peaks that abused both body and psyche. On paper, no climbs exceeded 1,000 ft, yet each upturn on the elevation profile involved a short hustle up a double-digit grade. Michael’s British friend forewarned that the Cornish and Devon climbs would slow a person down and no one could gain any speed when descending. What made for easy hiding places for lawless pirates made the Cornish geography an arduous place for riding for law-abiding randonneurs. This randonnee did not begin as a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta.
As we approached Truro, Cornwall’s county seat, we entered its surrounding areas lush with vegetation. Along the route tall overhanging hedges in rows formed tunnels. To avoid busy roads, Andy directed us onto country lanes which local farmers would use to move farming equipment from field to field. As such, the paved surfaces were rough at best in most places, some so badly broken that it felt like a gravel trail. On a bright day like that Sunday morning, descending into these dark tunnels and the sudden loss of light blinded me momentarily as my eyes couldn’t adjust in time to the change. I just gritted my teeth and braced for the violent bounces or followed the line that the rando ahead of me took, hoping he or she made the right choices. Later we found out that someone had crashed in one of these sections but were relieved to learn that he was able to continue.
We checked in at St Stephens, the first intermediate control. Andy was there to help the other control workers. I overheard him expressing how lucky the weather turned out. If it were a fortnight ago, the heavy rain would have turned these dusty country lanes into mud traps.
Michael and I next entered County Devon as we continued a more northernly route. Known for Dartmoor and Exmoor, its landscape provided Sir Arthur Conan Doyle the sinister atmosphere created by the grotesquely shaped granite outcroppings and obscuring fog in which Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson succeeded in solving an equally sinister crime in “The Hounds of the Baskervilles”. While its geography inspired enjoyable storytelling, Michael and I were not enjoying the unrelenting leg-jabbing climbs as we slogged on to Holsworthy, stopping at the Co-op convenience store to buy some provisions and collect that first of many receipts required for our proof of passage. The most hound-like encounters were local villagers walking their dogs.
Two nights before, Michael reported flu-like symptoms. Though it seemed to have subsided at the start, after 95 miles he began to fade. Not too far after the Holsworthy control, he told me to continue without him as he slowed his pace to assess his condition.
Entering County Somerset, the jagged terrain finally subsided, and I was able to enjoy some flattish stretches. Another LEJOGer caught up to me. He looked like a former time trialist who was set to hammer so I held on to his wheel for motivation and a chance to draft. When I reached the Wiveliscombe control after 151 miles, I opted to rest and wait for Michael. Arriving late in the day, randos who passed through before me already pillaged the food section like Attila the Hun. I managed to scrounge the less desirable leftovers for sustenance. As I forced myself to eat while sitting on a park bench in the square, Michael pulled up. After he refilled his water bottle and food supply, we headed out together.
The brilliance of midday was being overwhelmed by the amber glow of an impending dusk. We meandered through several trails and country roads before Cothelstone Hill, the last major climb to do battle with before reaching Mark, our first overnight control. Its summit was a mere 850 ft, but it was defended by a section over 13%. It was one of those climbs that would break the spirit after 160 miles and 11,600 feet of elevation gain. When I reached the top, I waited for Michael, who dismounted and walked the final 100 yards. He was physically and mentally spent as the strain of a hard day in the saddle weakened his ardent defenses against the illness’ onslaught. Again, he waved me on to not let his condition dictate my timetable. I was grateful for his magnanimity.
Michael and I first rode together in PBP 2015. We formed a temporary rando alliance somewhere just before Fougere on the outbound leg toward Brest. By the time we reached Carhaix I was too sleepy and exhausted to keep up. The following year we formed another alliance on SFR’s Golden Gate 1000k. Though we briefly rode together during SLO Randos’ Pinnacle Traveler 600k for our 2019 PBP qualification, we met again later at PBP. This time we finished together in 79 hours: he completed the enterprise on a Soma steel frame fixie while I claimed faux glory on a freewheel bike. For some time, we boasted that we would not ride together unless the event was over 1000k. Over the years our friendship was forged in the furnace of stupid decisions to ride long distances in unimaginable conditions. At SFR’s Hopland 400k Centennial Brevet, we goaded each other on in the 110 F heat through Coverdale followed by what felt like freezing through Point Reyes in the dark, all for the sake of cheap trinkets.
I reached the control at Mark in the dark of night. The food offerings were meagre at best. They managed to cook up a batch of rice but nothing to compliment except for the bolognaise sauce it it wasn’t out. When I asked for salt, the control worker replied: “We have no salt, I’m afraid.” There were flats of canned Heinz baked beans, a staple British foodstuff. I figured that any canned food would have sufficient salt as preservative, though British baked beans were masked by a heavy dose of sugar to satisfy the working-class palate. I asked for a couple ladles full of beans to help lubricate the flavorless rice down my gullet.
Not long afterward Michael entered the control, but his clammy, pale skin and that 1000-yard stare revealed his point of exhaustion beyond return. His breathing was labored caused by congestion. Knowing his limits, he pulled the cord and declared that he was an abandonneur for LEJOG 2024.
I couldn’t be too comfortable at the Mark control as I have a non-refundable room waiting for me another 14 miles down the road at the Hilton DoubleTree in Congresbury just south of Bristol. Matt, a American expatriot registered as an Audax UK rider, took the offer to stay in Michael’s room. In the dark we pedaled on and about 11:00PM, we reached the hotel. There was no greater rejoice than to finish a long day with a hot shower and a nice comfortable bed with clean sheets in a quiet room to sleep.
It was a Day of Daze to battle Cornwall and Devon’s treacheries and still be upright. I relished this moment of recovery to face tomorrow’s challenge. I found solace in the belief that tomorrow would be an “easy” day. Not long after laying my head down on the pillow, my consciousness fluttered off into soft oblivion.
- Distance – 194 miles / 312 km
- Elevation – 13,224 ft / 4,030 m (highest point – 968 ft)