24-Hour-ing

by Dave Stokes

I travelled down to the event HQ at Beattock on the Friday evening, arriving at about 8:30 and, after unpacking, I found that I had forgotten my cycling shoes; it’s good job I keep a old pair in the van as an insurance against such possibility, they’re not ideal, but it could have been worse, I could have arrived without any shorts.
I didn’t get a good night’s sleep; I was sure that as soon as I dropped off Campbell would start snoring so I just lay there in terror waiting for the hall to start reverberating; the really annoying thing was that he slept with the silence of a lamb. Simon arrived after midnight having completed his family duties and[New Replace Term]down without disturbing anyone, unlike the prat with the mobile phone.

The event started at 6:00 am with a heavy frost on the ground and after a few miles we started to climb; after an hour we were quite high up. I remember learning at school that the air temperature drops by 1°F for every 300 feet increase in altitude; in modern units that’s some °C for every so many metres. Any way, it was bloody cold. It was at this stage that I started passing some of the stragglers, like Jack Eason who doesn’t have a nick-name.
You probably don’t know Jack, you look at his bike and laugh. It looks like a 1950's Hercules tourer with riser handlebars, the sort of thing that no one would ever tour on; but he has brought it up to date. He’s repainted it with Dulux, fitted toe-clips but no straps - they’re not compatible with his trainers. The Sturmey-Archer 3-speed has been replaced with a 5-speed deraillier and a double chain-set, but the piéce-de-resistance is the Schmitt dyno-hub - wired up to an old modified Ever-ready battery lamp. To complete the picture, he wears the latest in fashionable cycling garb, baggy shorts and a very loose-fitting plastic jacket that acts as an parachute at any air speed above 7mph. Just don’t laugh too loudly, he rode the Paris-Brest-Paris four years ago - to qualify to enter for this event you have to complete a 200k, 300k, 400k and 600k audax during the same year, but you are allowed to substitute longer events - Jack’s qualifying rides were a 600, a 600, a 600, and a 600. He’ll be riding the PBP again this year. I don’t normally catch him. The other thing is, he’s 77 this year. I’ll try and get photos next time I see him.

The first check point was at a Tibetan temple, I really wish I’d taken my camera to give Web-Wizard some material. It was a bit al-fresco, standing in the muddy car park consuming Irn-Bru, a banana and some Maltesers, they’re the little chappies that are supposed to melt in your mouth, not in your hand. It was still so flippin’ cold I had to chew them. Some one commented that “that was the humply bit over”; oh, the poor deluded soul.

It was shortly after this that Campbell’s life took an interesting turn, cornering while descending at 35mph there was a loud bang followed by some extreme bike handling skills. His front rim had burst, shedding the tyre which allowed the tube to blow. A repair was affected using cable ties to hold everything together, it was with great presence of mind that the finishing touch was the removal of the brake-blocks; the next thirty miles were devoted to replacing cable-ties as they wore through and pinged off. There is something about Campbell and women, I wish I understood it, for he had managed to phone some one else’s wife, and persuade her to steal one of her husband’s wheels (I’m not sure how to word that without making her sound like a polygamist) and meet him on a lonely road in the middle of a desolate moor. (Simon tells a slightly different version which he believes to be accurate, but art is beauty, beauty is truth and so I claim that my version is definitive.)

The route continued through some spectacular scenery to Selkirk where the route turned into the gale - the good news was that it was only for 50 miles. The first 25 were along the Yarrow Valley, past St Mary’s Loch and through the Ettrick Valley, the three together comprise a single straight glaciated valley aligned with the trade wind. God had designed a wind tunnel, had I had my camera, there was a good picture to be had here. Oh, and it was raining all the way along it. Somewhere about here, a guy passed me wearing long trousers, the right leg rolled up to his knee suggesting some sort of Masonic influence; it transpired that he had forgotten his shorts, he later used arm-warmers as makeshift cycle clips, it could have been worse, he could have forgotten his shoes. The section ended at a little cafe in Lochmaben where a completely knackered cyclist could enjoy delicious soup and cream buns and contemplate the fact that he was less than half-way round the course but only a handful of miles from the start. Some one commented that once we reached the far check point at Newton Stewart, at least we would have a tail wind back to the finish; oh - the poor deluded soul.
Our direction now changed towards the cycle museum at Drumlanrig Castle so that we should have had a cross wind for 25 miles, fortunately the road followed river valleys and much of it was through wooded country-side so there was effectively no wind. For those of you interested, we went through a village named AE; I’m still having psychological problems with that one. Dr Gerry, you're studying psychology, can you solve my problem?
Having had a 25-mile rest and the chance to satisfactorily re-hydrate, it was back into the head wind (apart from the climbs which offered some protection) as darkness descended. There was a half moon so it was never really dark, apart from the descents I was able to ride with nothing more than an LED front light for most of the night. The last 15 miles to Newton Stewart were a bit bizarre as the route was being retraced, there were all these cyclists coming the other way with their bright front lights and dis-embodied voices shouting words of encouragement; it did mean that I knew that I was on the right road. It can be quite disconcerting, riding for hours in the dark on strange roads; it’s difficult to read the route sheet and sign-posts without stopping, and the landmarks are invisible.
Leaving Newton Stewart, homeward bound, gently rolling hills, no wind! Why does this always happen? The lack of wind made it quiet, apart from the inane jabbering of my companion (I don’t normally have one of those) as he tried to keep himself awake. I eventually persuaded him to have a couple of my caffeine tablets, it didn’t shut him up but at least it enabled him to ride in a straight line. Apparently he studied beekeeping at college so we talked about bees and beekeepers for a while until Mr Masonic Trousers caught us and they both pedalled off into the distance. I wonder what they talked about?
Just after they had left me to my silence I heard a funny sort of crack, didn’t think much of it at the time, thought it was a stone pinging against my frame; as dawn broke I noticed my left wheel was a bit wobbly, it didn’t have to go through a frame (trikes do have advantages) so I didn’t worry unduly. At the finish I realised that two spoke holes had broken free of the hub, George Longstaff obviously didn’t glue them on properly.

By now it was just a matter of plodding on to the finish, but then that had been the case since the museum; I knew that there was plenty of time and that the physically demanding bits were over once I had recovered from the slog to Lochmaben. The second half had been something of an anti-climax due partly to tiredness and not being able to see much of the landscape. But at the finish I was greeted with the sight of Simon sleeping like a baby, it seemed a shame to wake him so I just took the compulsory embarrassing photo for you all to enjoy and went in to fill my face with cheese scones and Weetabix.

Post-script (adapted from Simon’s report).
As usual all Tom Hanley's forward planning arrangements were fantastic.... sleepover/breakfast.... spare inner tubes.... Selkirk.... rolls tea and fruit cake.... Lochmaben.... good wee cafe who couldn't be more helpful.... Drumlanrig.... tea.... sympathy and a doggy bag and best of all a 'donate what you like' spread in aid of MacMillan Cancer fund in Newton Stewart where they couldn't help trying to cram more food into you.... home made soup.... pasta and sauce.... bread.... rice pudding.... endless bread.... rice pudding.... stewed rhubarb (I had some of all of those).
53 riders finished.... 5 packed.... last rider (Heather Swift, she rides the Mersey 24 most years and covered most of this route with Jack Eason who doesn’t) passed me one mile from the finish at 8.56 am Sunday.... They finished with about 5 minutes to spare.

Amazingly.... more amazing than Campbell's rim story was.... the Tandem story....
A pair of strong riders on a brand new Longstaff Tandem trashed the pawls on their Hugi hubs on the Glen Kens climb.... the solution? Yes - tie wraps to their spokes (24 each side) onto the holes in the biggest sprockets.... they had to walk some hills but they did the next 80 miles....
So a good day was had by all.... Tom doesn't run it every year but it's worth riding when he does (on non-PBP years he often does a 500k that uses motorway service stations during the night, it actually works out quite well).

DaveTheTrike