A text message from Robert D. arrived; it changed everything. Did I want to be a driver for the Deloitte 'Ride Across Britain'? "Sounds interesting" thought I, but being an older and wiser soul than I once was, I wasn't about to plunge into anything daft. Over the next few hours however, I talked myself into it, my powers of reasoning compromised by my sense of adventure.
My role would be to drive the 'Broom Wagon', traditionally the last vehicle following a race, its purpose to sweep up the riders who cannot continue. I had visions of a crowd of us, maybe 25 or so, pedalling staunchly across Scotland, England and Wales while 'yours truly' appeared from time to time with a flask of soup, having read another chapter of War and Peace in a lay-by somewhere. I got a bit of a rude awakening, on that score at least, when I learned that over 600 people were participating in the event. Suddenly I realised that War and Peace would be too long for the available free time.
In fact, the broom wagon consisted of two vehicles. One was a Transit van in which I would be sharing the driving with Joe, a young man who is normally to be found working for the people who publish your Cycling Weekly. The other vehicle was a minibus, driven by Jeremy, Shane or Andy, members of Chippenham Wheelers all.
On the journey from Andy's house to John O'Groats (via Hamilton in southern Scotland) the minibus also carried a group of cyclists known as Andy's Angels. These were the chaperones, experienced riders who would accompany the riders in the Ride Across Britain, many of whom had little idea what they were actually doing! The chaperone group consisted of Paul, Gordon, Rob D, Nick, Mike, Richard, Shane, Jeremy and Andy from the Chippenham Wheelers and a group from the London area called Chippo, Tony and Rob W. The bikes and baggage travelled with us in the van.
For most of the trip we would be camping, and I suppose that I hadn't given much thought as to what the camp-sites would be like. I knew it would be colder that far north and had packed two sleeping bags which I used one inside the other. My jaw dropped as we entered John O'Groats and I took in the reality of a camp-site for over 700 people flung down in one of the wildest settlements in Britain. The circus had certainly come to town, that's for sure. There were some very large tents indeed, including a huge marquee for the kitchen and dining area, a giant treble wigwam containing TVs and a bar, a medical and massage tent, a drying-room tent, an office, a baggage tent, and the Halfords workshop. Of course there were the usual toilets and showers. A whole secure area had been set aside for the racking of 600 bicycles - well over a million pounds worth! Oh yes, and then there were the tents - rows and rows of green two-man tents and more rows of blue tents, bigger to hold four people. The tents were of the self erecting sort. Putting up all these tents would otherwise have been a monster task. It probably was anyway!
The daylight lasts all night in those northern latitudes and, having arrived in good time anyway, we set about exploring the metropolis which is John O'Groats. Five minutes later we had done with exploring, so we met in the cafe, the famous John O'Groats hotel being derelict and ringed with safety fencing. The weather was turning wet and the wind was rising, the nearby Orkney Islands disappearing and reappearing numerous times in the squally mist. (We told Joe the islands were Norway. He seemed happy with that.)
During the night the wind continued to rise and the temperature dropped. The scene in the entertainments tent was reminiscent of a disaster refugee camp with bodies huddled in blankets everywhere you looked. I went to bed, not in one of the tents, but in the van. Even in the van it was perishingly cold. The only things I took off were my shoes. The wind made the van rock; we moved it as close as possible to the minibus so that the two vehicles would shelter each other. During the night I was kept awake by a lot of swearing and shouting. At first I thought it was some brave souls partying at the edge of the earth. Later I realised that the Halfords workshop team had spent the night hanging on to their workshop tent to stop it lifting off and flying all the way to 'Norway'.
Morning came early to the Ride Across Britain. Reveillez was sounded on the public address system, a different rock song each day. Coming at about 5.30am, I failed to see anything amusing in it. However I had one personal ambition, to run at John O'Groats and I set off along the beach and out to Duncansby Head lighthouse. Along the way I passed primroses flowering. In southern England summer was in full spate. In northern Scotland it was still early spring.
On my return to the camp a journalist stopped me and asked if I was really jogging before a 1000 mile bike ride. I was tempted to bask in some sort of false glory but I admitted instead that I was just the driver and he lost interest in me in an instant.
Each day of the ride had its own character but essentially they followed a pattern dictated by the role Joe and I were playing.
The day would start with that early morning call which blared out briefly and without regard to the poor souls who lived nearby. I slept through it most mornings. The van was light tight, sound tight and pretty nearly air-tight. Somehow we survived until each morning. Eventually my bladder would insist that I get up and wander across to the toilets. On the days when I was not frozen to the marrow I would have a shower. In the mornings the crew had priority in the showers, whereas the riders had priority in the evenings. The cleaners were eagerly dismantling the showers and the toilet blocks from an early hour so once the riders had left, the showers were unavailable. Same story to some extent with the food and the toilets. Luckily we were in a good position to divert from the route and use the toilets in such places as Tescos in Thurso. (A strange Tescos where I bought a bar of chocolate and a bottle of whisky. I told the lady that it was my breakfast. She showed no surprise.)
The food was generous, though to be honest a bit austere at times. Apparently it had been devised by some nutritionist to give enough calories to get through the day. Well I have news for him - I didn't think there were enough calories to get through the day even sitting behind the driving wheel, though to be fair I have been occasionally accused of gluttony. Many times I heard mutterings from the ranks, on one occasion a chaperone hitched a lift to an Indian restaurant, and twice Joe and I had fish and chips.
Departure times were variable, the chaperones left a long time after the main field, confident that they would soon catch the slower riders who they would accompany. We would see them off and then return to the food tent to get in the way of the dismantling of the catering facility and generally fill ourselves up with more tea and toast. (Yes; I suppose the gluttony thing may be founded in truth.)
Then we would tidy up the van and minibus and try, often in vain, to get off the camp site, the exit of which would probably be obstructed by the slow progress of a huge articulated lorry or a convoy of toilet blocks on trailers.
We would follow the route taken by the cyclists, each junction very well marked by arrows on large cards. Never did we encounter any ambiguity; you couldn't get lost. Behind us was the van containing two people whose job it was to take down the signs and any other items to do with the ride so that we didn't leave any litter. It was very important to let this van know if we were going 'off-piste' as he could get in front of us and we would be unable to follow the route. I made a point of trying to know the route in advance but in urban areas the signs were essential.
After about 15 miles we would catch up the last cyclist on the road. It was very important that we didn't get in front of any cyclist, or that if we did as was inevitable due to road conditions, we tried to count how many we had behind us and make sure that we had seen them all pass before proceeding. I didn't worry about the chaperones being behind me as we were all in touch by mobile phone, and the chaperones were all chosen for their experience and self-reliance.
The first day was very windy and the riders had set off into the face of a veritable gale, but I was surprised that we had our first Broom Wagon duties on only the 23rd mile of the 1050 miles we would eventually cover. By the time we reached the Kyle of Sutherland for the first nights rest we had taken on several more 'customers' and a worrying trend was starting to emerge.
We had begun to pick up riders who were troubled by stomach cramps, sickness and diarrhoea. Over the next few days, the minibus went from Sag Wagon to Plague Wagon and Jeremy had a quite unpleasant time of it dealing with passengers who were very unwell. The van itself smelled and we all became very aware that we were very exposed to the risk of catching it ourselves. There didn't seem to be a Plan B for the case where all the Broom Wagon drivers were too ill to perform. While we all had our days of feeling a bit off colour, luckily it never quite came to that. I knew I was in a privileged position having bicycles for passengers rather than the cyclists themselves. Even the bikes themselves were objects of suspicion though and I have never washed my hands so often!
About a third of the way into each days ride we would encounter the first Pit Stop, a chance for riders to stretch their legs and have a drink and a bite to eat. The feeds were designed by our old friend the nutritionist. After a few days you realise that life with him would probably be a dull affair. Doesn't he ever put the kettle on for a cuppa, or get stuck into a cheeseburger with chips? Most of the cyclists I know do!
As a result of these pit stops I NEVER want to see another tortilla wrap again, or a packet of Jelly Dinosaurs. I started to turn yellow from a surfeit of bananas. Odd to think that bananas were such an exotic luxury just a few years ago. I am sick of the sight of them.
As the days unfolded we left the spartan wilds of Caithness far behind and via camps at Kyle of Sutherland, Fort William and East Kilbride we travelled the length of Scotland, seeing Glen Coe, Ben Nevis, Loch Ness, Urquhart Castle, the Caledonian Canal and Loch Lomond among other Scottish beauties. The weather got better, drier and warmer. This meant more midges, another great new experience.
These were big days too; several days in a row the riders covered 130 miles and the struggle to reach the evening stop repeated itself day after day. The chaperones became familiar with the same faces each day; the broom wagon drivers became familiar with the same backsides each day. Some notable heroes emerged such as Michelle who had vowed to cover the whole distance to raise £5000 for charity, Vaughan who wouldn't admit defeat either, many others who were getting weaker but seemingly more determined as we crossed the border to stay by Ullswater. The beautiful overnight stop in the Lake District was at the cost of a rude awakening as first light saw the last to arrive being first to leave as they tackled the majestic Kirkstone Pass before briefly riding on the east shore of Windermere.
Loch Linnhe
Fort William
East Kilbride
Ullswater
'Manchester'
Ludlow
'Cheddar'
Launceston
Land's End
I came home from the Ride Across Britain with the feeling that I had been lifted out of my normal life and placed down in a different world where nothing of my normal life existed any more. All of the old worries were, at worst, put on hold. This break from the tasks of everyday life was shatteringly exhausting. (And of course I wasn't even pedalling 130 miles per day!) It was by no means a holiday but the maxim that "A change is as good as a rest" couldn't have been truer.
The last day could have been an anti-climax.
It was. It was bound to be.
It was still a day of incredible pleasure as we made our way down to Sennen Cove for a hour or so of just sitting drinking coffee and wandering around the little fishing village with its short yellow beach and its famous lifeboat station, a new Tamar Class boat permanently poised on the sliding ways ready for the next rescue in the wild Atlantic.
