My real interest lay in cycling touring, which for a teenager, wasn’t cool. Teenage cyclists around my age would join the BCF (British Cycling Federation) who allocated racing licences. Instead, I joined the RTTC (Road Time Trials Council) who provided similar third party insurance and allowed me to take part in time trials. In addition, I was a member of the CTC (Cyclists Touring Club) along with all the old guys who wore plus fours and tweed jackets. I found the solitude whilst touring much more relaxing and I could enjoy cycling at my own pace, stopping for photographs or just admiring the view without worrying about slowing anyone down. Any current cycling friends will give a wry smile at the comment about going at my own pace, because I still regularly use that phrase today.
Whilst I enjoy the camaraderie of being with other cyclists, I still find group riding off-putting. Many cyclists seem to be obsessed with speed, and having the lightest bike with the best equipment. Today, even if I’m out with a group of similar-aged people, they still tend to have one person at the front setting the pace, with everyone else ‘following a wheel’. This means that only the first rider gets to see the scenery, with everyone else dubiously enjoying the view of a pair of lycra-clad buttocks. The cyclists at the back must concentrate on not touching the rider in front and also ensure that they don’t drop too far behind to lose the slipstream effect. This is not relaxing and explains why I am happier on my own.
My preferred choice of machine is the most comfortable bike that never breaks down. My current (and only) bike is a Dawes Ultra Galaxy which I’ve owned since 2010 and it has covered over 13,000 miles. I’ve had one mechanical breakdown (when my bottom bracket failed part way round a Scottish tour) and only had two punctures (plus one valve failure). Now that’s reliability. I must say that puncture-free riding is fantastic, and a pure luxury. I must have got thirty or more puncture a year when I was a kid, but that was before tyres had improved rubber compounds, and crucially, a thin layer of Kevlar which deflects thorns or glass away from the tube.
I’m certainly not the fastest rider in my group of cycling chums, but I can hold my own. I usually get left behind on the uphill bits (I blame the weight of my bike), but on the flat I can generally keep up, and am actually a bit faster downhill. The latter could be due to good riding technique (I have cycled well over 50,000 miles over the years) or perhaps I’m just a bit gormless and don’t have any imagination of what could go wrong. I don’t think the latter is true really. I take care to read the road ahead, and cycle within the limit of my bike’s ability to stop, but even so, I do enjoy an invigorating descent with sweeping bends.
I try to get away on cycle touring trips whenever I can. I have been taking part in a charity ride in Scotland each year since 2010 and I really love the scenery and the fact that a support team carries all the equipment for us. The Prestwick Cycle Challenge offers distances of around 80 miles per day over three days with feeding stations every 20 miles and mobile help. I also enjoy planning my own routes and I have experienced some marvellous solo rides in the more remote parts of Scotland.
In 2013 I had an idea that I wanted to cycle from Lands End to John o’ Groats, but when I began planning the route, I quickly realised that the section from Bristol to Preston (approaching a quarter of the journey) would be rather boring. In addition, the logistics of getting a bike, luggage and me to the start and back from the finish was a daunting task to do alone. I am very independent, and hate relying on others or even asking for help, so I dropped the idea of doing this classic ride. I then thought logically, and asked myself why I wanted to do it, and it was simply to say that I’ve done it. This was silly: I knew quite well that I could do it, so there was no point in proving this to anyone. After some more thought, I decided that there was no reason I needed to actually cycle between the two points, and that I could simply cycle the equivalent distance on roads that I would enjoy, without having to cycle through (or around) cities such as Bristol, Warrington, Wigan, Carlisle, Glasgow etc.. The virtual LEJoG was conceived.
In 2013, I planned two solo 4-day trips of 307 and 346 miles and these, coupled with the 3-day Prestwick Cycle Challenge (247 miles) sandwiched in the middle gave me the 900-mile distance I needed. My first trip was across to Whitby, via an overnight stay in York, returning eastwards to stay in Osmotherly for the second night. The final night was by the sea in Arnside before the short hop home. The weather was generally good apart from the section between Castle Bolton and Arnside when it rained heavily. The cycle challenge that year was from Prestwick to Portree on Skye, following some beautiful roads. The final solo trip was to fulfil a long-held ambition to cycle from John o’ Groats to Cape Wrath across the entire north coast of Scotland. I’m not sure why this was a route I craved, unless it was because so few people can claim to have done it. In case you aren’t familiar with the geography, John o’ Groats is at the north east extremity of the UK, whilst Cape Wrath is on the north west extremity.
The four-day ride had started on the west coast at Achmelvich beach youth hostel at (stunning white sand and sunsets to die for), where I left my car. I cycled across the country to Helmsdale on the east coast for the first night before heading north to John o’ Groats and Dunnet Head and overnight in Thurso. On day three I followed the north coast all the way past Dounreay and the stunning Kyle of Tongue to Durness staying overnight in the youth hostel there. After a detour to Cape Wrath, I headed back down the west coast to Achmelvich. The weather was glorious throughout, with warm sunshine and clear blue skies. I could never do that trip again, because I could never hope for the same weather.
Although Cape Wrath is part of the mainland, the only road to it must be accessed by a small ferry which holds about eight people (and, importantly for me, a bike which was slung across the tiny boat’s midsection). Once across the other side a minibus transports passengers to the lighthouse, some 12 miles distant. Of course, I didn’t need the minibus, and I set off on my bike to enjoy a gorgeous ride across open countryside with no-one (apart from one ranger in a pickup truck and the minibus) passing me.
The entire cycle journey to Cape Wrath was spent with the Chris de Burgh classic tune ‘Don’t pay the Ferryman’ going round and round in my head. This tune had replaced The Proclaimers’ ‘Letter from America’ that had been my ear‑worm for the previous two days (‘Lochaber no more, Sutherland no more…’). I find that this is one of the risks of touring alone: you can get a tune in your head that sometimes annoys you, but you can’t get rid of it. Another very annoying one was when I was cycling around the Kintyre peninsula with Paul McCartney’s melody stuck in my head all day. This is not a new phenomenon. The tune which accompanied me throughout my Welsh cycling tour in 1977 was ‘You are on my mind’ by Chicago. I was all loved up at the time (I’d been going out with Geraldine for about 6 months), and the lines
Rocky mountain highs are very nice, but you are gone and nothing’s quite the same
really touched a spot, as did the later lines
I’ll be coming home again to you, and look upon the woman that I love, There is nothing I can say that celebrates the special way you keep me satisfied Pretty girl.
Heavy stuff for an 18-year-old to handle! Even now, hearing the wonderful horn section on that track immediately takes me back to a lovely ride through a forest heading towards Dolgellau.
My latest trip was to follow another ambition which was to visit the Callanish standing stones in the Western Isles of Scotland. (The Proclaimers also accompanied me on this tour – ‘Lewis no more, Skye no more’). I read a wonderful novel set amongst these famous stones in 1990 and ever since, I’d promised myself that I would visit. During the trip I drove to Broadford on Skye, parked my car and cycled across the island and caught a ferry to Tarbert on Lewis which became my base for three nights. The 106 mile trip up to Callanish, across to Stornoway and back to Tarbert was difficult due to the 20+ mph headwind for the last 36 miles and then heavy rain for the last ten miles, but the spiritual experience at Callanish was certainly worth it.
My experiences in cycling in Scotland are that the weather can be wonderful or dreadful. A group of us were discussing this in 2014 and someone commented that Scottish scenery was the best, but it would be improved if the Scots could guarantee sunny weather. The consensus was that a week in Mallorca in April would be a perfect alternative to Scotland in June, so twelve of us booked a villa in Pollença and spent a wonderful week bowling along some of the best cycling roads in Europe. The Sa Calobra ride was the highlight: a ten-kilometre descent with an average gradient of 7% including 26 hairpin bends. The only downside is that the only road away from the tiny fishing village is back the way you came, with a daunting 682m climb which took me about an hour. In 2015, we hadn’t planned any rides in advance, so in discussion, I expressed a desire to visit a local beach I’d spotted on the map. It was only a few miles away and was called Cala Sant Vicenç, although since I kept mentioning that I wanted to visit, the place was soon christened ‘Bernie’s Beach’. We made a memorable visit there one evening, packing our swimming gear and loading up our bikes’ drinks bottles with Sangria.
We enjoyed the week so much that we returned to the same region in 2016 and did many of the same rides once more, but the people who’d missed in 2015 were understandably puzzled when we kept mentioning visiting Bernie’s Beach. Not understanding our lingua franca, they clearly wondered who on earth was Bernie’s bitch and questioned whether she’d be up to having a dozen cyclists all visiting her at once.
Back to cycling, I must still count solo touring as my favourite activity, however. I love every aspect of it: the planning, with maps and pieces of scrap paper detailing proposed routes and stopovers; the preparation, selecting the minimum clothing and equipment to save weight; the ride itself (obviously!); and finally the analysis and review of the ride, reminiscing over the sights and the miles covered.
After the ill-fated tour of the Yorkshire Dales with Mick Sutton in 1975, I didn’t do any more tours until 1977 when I planned two long trips and a weekend away. The first was in North Wales when I covered 458 miles in eight days. Quite an impressive mileage amongst the hills and in poor weather (generally) and I was also carrying about 23 lbs (10.5kg) of luggage. I typically carry 6kg these days. The bike for this expedition was a Puch Free Spirit which I had bought a year before. It was an inexpensive machine, built to a price and, although fine for everyday riding, it wasn’t really up to the demands that I was putting it through. My diary entry for Saturday 16th July 1977 reads, “I set off at 8:30 this morning with a very heavy and very noisy bike. It has developed a lot of creaks & grunts but I think it will make it.” These thoughts were in my head at about 9 o’clock on day one as I was cycling up the slight climb out of Euxton, having covered barely 5 miles. I was optimistic, but very naïve. How did I not associate the creaks with an overloaded machine? It was fine the day before, and suddenly, after I’d added 23lbs of luggage it was creaking. To be fair, it was only the wheels that were struggling – the frame itself was fine. I now know that wheels must be very strong on a touring machine, and it is part of what distinguishes a tourer from other machines (more spokes and stronger rims).
I cycled to Chester on the first day, and managed to become sunburned, but by Sunday morning, I was in Wales, so it was raining. Because of the weather, I decided to take a more direct route to Bala youth hostel limping along on a wobbly bike. On Monday, I rode down to Dolgellau through some gorgeous wooded roads (one had seven gates, however), whilst being plagued by midges (and humming tunes from ‘Chicago’). Only at this distance did I realised that the root cause of my wobbly bike was that the spokes had come loose in the rear wheel, so I tightened them all up and once more, I had a good bike again. Happy days!
The weather was typical of North Wales in July – warm and wet. On the Thursday, my diary entry reads “I don‘t think it rained today” which actually says far more about the other days. I was staying in Colwyn Bay, and since it had a bike shop, and I was fed up with getting soaked, I had decided to buy a cycling cape. As I approached the bike shop, my crank came loose, so the friendly man in the shop tightened it for me. As you would expect, after buying a cape, the weather improved, and I spent 90 minutes on the beach at Rhyl before continuing on to the Maeshafn youth hostel near Mold (closed in 2004) for my final overnight stay. A tail wind on the last day helped me to arrive home in just four hours, including a break for lunch. The final line of my diary entry on Saturday 23rd July 1977 reads, “I also began planning my next tour in September. I can hardly wait.”
If you don’t remember cycling capes, they were dreadful things. Made out of heavyweight plastic and always bright yellow, they used to cover the upper body including the handlebars. They certainly kept off any vertical rain, but were treacherous in the wind, acting as a sail and having the ability to blow the unwary cyclist seriously off course, especially in towns when passing side streets. In summer, the environment beneath a cape took on the temperature and humidity of an Amazonian rain forest, and many of its mysterious smells. I don’t miss my cape. I’ve just realised that everyone must have seen cycling capes: for several years, a BBC trailer featured a number of cyclists circling round wearing coloured capes in the pouring rain.
The next tour in September 1977 was to the Lake District. I departed for Slaidburn youth hostel at 4pm on Friday and my diary entry reads, “My load didn’t seem as heavy as last time, although I’ve taken the same stuff (except pyjamas).” The next day, the entry reported a typical touring day for me, “It was pouring down every minute of the day today!! I set off at 9:40 and at 10:25, I discovered I had a puncture. That worried me until I realised that it wasn’t going down very fast at all. I bought a bit extra food at High Bentham and ate it at Ingleton. I took a wrong turning in Coniston and went up the steepest hill I’ve seen in my life. And then came down again and went up the right one! There were only nine for supper tonight, mainly girls. It is an extremely wild place with dozens of waterfalls everywhere. Worth coming back to!”
It took me over 25 years to return. I went there again with Geraldine and the children in January 2003 when we walked from Coniston past the youth hostel and up to the tarn. Nothing much had changed, and the hill was still steep, and very rough. I’ve just re-read the entry for Coniston Coppermines in the 1975 YHA handbook. Under attractions, it says “Bathing pool (in stream) 100yds. Coniston Old Man 2635ft. Rock Climbing 2m”. It was definitely a much simpler time, very reminiscent of the Famous Five books I so enjoyed in my childhood. I believe now that there is probably a closer alignment with the Famous Five’s childhoods and my own in the 1970s than there is between my own childhood and that of my children. Much of what I did as a young boy and even as a teenager would now contravene the Child Protection Act (1999) and cause an unwelcome interest from the Social Services. I consider myself very fortunate.
My bike troubles continued on the Lake District tour. On day two, my front wheel was making crunching noises (I suspect that I had a broken bearing which was making its presence felt). I also realised that the lake district passes are just about the steepest in the world, and I struggled on Honister, and also had to take numerous rests to climb Wrynose from the east. After Wrynose, I stayed at a hostel at the foot of Hard Knott pass, and my diary entry for the following day, Tuesday 13th September reads, “It was cold first thing today, but I soon warmed up by climbing to the top of Hard Knott pass in 12 minutes! It is easier than Wrynose. I had a grand ride down and a very pleasant journey to the A595.”
On Wednesday evening, more trouble awaited me. Just as I was approaching the youth hostel at Ennerdale, my rear cassette stripped, meaning that I had no drive. Luckily, the warden was a cyclist, and eventually, after we failed to remove the old cassette, she loaned me a complete rear wheel. I lashed my own wheel to the back of the bike and set off to cycle directly to Ambleside to the nearest bike shop. (This meant tackling both Hard Knott and Wrynose once more, but this time from west to east – actually, an easier option). The man in the bike shop in Ambleside was most helpful, and fitted a new cassette for £4.18 (that sounds quite expensive, but I didn’t care). I left the Ennerdale hostel warden’s wheel there for her to collect later, and I was pleased to have resolved my mechanical problems.
The problems had not completely gone away, however. My rear derailleur began to play up on Saturday, and I had to cycle home from Arnside in a single gear. None of this put me off, however, and I was already anticipating my next weekend away at Aysgarth in three weeks.
On cycle tours, I would always stay in pre-booked youth hostels with an evening meal and breakfast paid for in advance. That way, I didn’t need to worry about carrying food or wondering where to buy supplies in remote areas. I would eat anything and am very easily satisfied, and so I found that the food at hostels was very good, if rather basic. I think it cost 60p for a three-course evening meal.
On the last day of the Lake District tour in 1977, I stopped at Arnside youth hostel on Saturday night and had a very unpleasant experience. When I arrived, since I was the only person eating in that night, the warden suggested that I ate out. I agreed to this, but then he only gave me 50p back from the 60p that I’d paid in advance. I asked for the full amount and his reply was “well, how do I make a profit from this?” He told me that fish and chips in the town only cost 40p, so I was making money on the deal. We argued for a while, and I would not back down on principal, and demanded either the full cash amount or a meal as booked. Eventually, the warden agreed to provide me with a meal after all, and, unsurprisingly, it was dreadful. I should have anticipated this, but as I said earlier, I was very naïve and didn’t think through the consequences of my stubbornness. I complained to the YHA afterwards, but received no compensation, since I had actually received what I’d paid for, although it was delivered with very bad grace. I went to bed worrying about what breakfast would be like, but thankfully, two other hostellers were also eating, so it was fine. This particular hostel closed in 1978. I wonder if there is a connection?
I bought a real touring bike in July 1978 when I took delivery of a Dawes Galaxy, which was then (and perhaps still is) the king of all tourers. It cost £135, which would perhaps relate to £750 in today’s money. They actually cost over £1000 now, so it was probably good value. My diary entry for Sunday 9th July reads, “I tested out my new Dawes today – it’s good, but only for touring – it begins to handle strangely when I stand up.” I grew to love the handling after a very short time. Initially, I was probably comparing it to the Peugeot which had a very short wheelbase caused by a very steep fork angle making for a very sporty, but twitchy ride. This is great for racing, but not ideal for a more relaxed riding style. The Dawes was set up for comfort and load-carrying rather than speed, and full appreciation took time to develop. I cycled over 12,500 miles over the next seven years on it, before virtually ignoring it until its renaissance in 2005 when I once more began to venture out on a bike with the children.
I bought new a Dawes Ultra Galaxy in February 2010, and had fully intended to ride both bikes, but the new one was so much better that I couldn’t bring myself to ride a ‘classic’ as it now was. I sold my 1978 Dawes in September 2011 for £255 when the total mileage recorded was 13,620. The frame was the only remaining part of the original bike: I’d replaced everything else over time. The new owner wanted to restore it to its original condition, and I hope he managed it, because it was still a very attractive machine, with detailed, hand-finished lugs. I still look at bikes of that vintage and sigh with envy, but I know for me the pleasure is in the riding, not with the look of the bike. And modern bikes ride far superior than do the classics.
