18:28 – it wasn’t deliberate that we had exactly ten hours to get to Cramond before sunrise. We rolled out of Carlisle and into the evening, leaving the graffiti art convention in the Bitts Park sunshine, and top-notch-nachos in our wake, with a clear number in mind. It did feel a little surreal to be starting out on Ride to the Sun 2022!
The road slipped under our wheels easily for those first few hours, with the tailwind keeping us going through the showers and into the gloaming. Ben had to quiet his guts with liberal use of flapjack, but we quickly marked up Ecclefechan, Gretna (“I wonder when we cross the border, and will it be marked?” – Duncan, on _leaving_ Gretna! Clearly I wasn’t singing Flower of Scotland loudly enough…), Lockerbie, and Beattock by the time sped into Moffat, everyone was in a pretty good place.
It wasn’t 10pm yet, but the clock is always ticking. Linda ran a tight ship at the Best Pizza and Kebab House, and soon we were running on lasagne, fish and chips, and full-gas Coke… even getting a table inside to escape the dreaded midge!
Despite our no-faff stop, the 22km/h average we’d built up had been whittled down to little over 19, and we still had the Devil’s Beeftub climb to go. Still, we took the time to wrap fairy lights around our frames.
Nothing was for certain, except the sun slipping away, as the bats played in our headlights leaving the valley. The red lights strung out ahead, the white behind, both curling around the curves of the hill, and we settled in to the rhythm of the gentle gradient, knowing this was our only significant climb of the night.
A sense of timelessness crept over us as our navigation screens slipped into the darkness, and the rain clouds closed in from behind. We donned waterproofs only a little late, and as we neared the top, a spectacular, but thankfully singular, fork of lighting illuminated the summit ahead of us. As the thunder rolled away, we heard the pipes, and knew we were almost there.
She played on the top of that hill for hours, with a friend to hold an umbrella which must have done little against the rain and even less against the chill we were all feeling, but it was so welcome to the riders getting over the route’s main obstacle.
By now, our view to the north eastern horizon was clear of big hills, and we started to see the first hint of the oncoming dawn we were racing. It would be our companion for the rest of the night; the sky never did fully darken.
We shot down the hill, not really sure where our next stop, The Crook Inn, actually was. We almost stopped just 250m from it, but as we rounded the last corner, the lights and lasers were unmistakable. This long-time boarded-up pub witnesses this strange event each year with a Cyclorave, and despite the rain putting a real chill into us on the descent, we still appreciated the DJ’s work… we just showed it with star jumps to the beat, and sharing out and putting on every piece of clothing we had between us!
Our efforts on the hill had only cost a couple of km/h, but we were down to 16.8 and knew that if it dropped below the magic 16, it would be hard to get back now. Bananas inhaled, bottles filled, we pressed on into the next 70 km knowing we wouldn’t find any more facilities until the Esso at the Embra bypass…
The road signs started to have more-achievable looking numbers on them, but the darkness was tricksy, some of those miles felt much slower than others, often without an obvious reason. They never went up, which we were thankful for, as we skipped along the road, passing and being passed by the same few groups of riders, recognising their faces, only half-lit by reflected headlights.
The occasional pelotons which thundered past with angry-sounding cries of “MOVING OUT!” and “MIDDLE!” became less frequent as we steadily munched up the remaining distance. We were glad to have them out of sight, after an especially alarming one saw a car try to overtake the 60km/h peloton at the same time as it passed us. The horn blared, but you can’t stop a group quickly from those speeds, and they shouldn’t have had to.
Fortunately, everyone was fine.
Coming closer to Edinburgh, my disorientation increased, which I didn’t expect. We were riding roads I felt like I’d ridden before, but couldn’t recognise, with unfamiliar village names I’d never paid attention to in the past. We saw the outlines of hills to the north and west of us which could only be the Pentlands, but looked completely unfamiliar as silhouettes of the tops. Our energy and motivation dropped as we created each bump in the profile, which we felt sure would bring Arthur’s Seat and the city lights in to view… but didn’t.
Until one did! As expected, this sight just before Penicuik put fire back in our legs, and it all felt easy again. The chatter with fellow strangers on the road picked back up, and we shared our surprise at how much difference it made. The streetlights helped us navigate the worsening roads, though Ben endeavoured to diligently call out every pothole in Edinburgh regardless.
We shot past the Esso garage, not feeling the need for a fill up, and continued up to the top of Fairmilehead, where everything was laid out ahead of us, not least the long, fast descent through the Victorian suburbs.
Weaving down the empty roads, we spread out, only to bunch back together for the surreal traversal of Lothian Road after kicking out time, confused groups of clubbers and cyclists each wondering what on earth the other was doing. It resolved itself in mutual good-natured (if obscene) heckling and disbelief, a very appropriate coda to this whole excursion.
Queensferry Road took us gently but quickly out to Cramond, and after a short, staged, wait to let our welcoming party make their equally-adventurous way along Silverknowes Esplenade, we flowed down past the kirkyard, out to the harbour, where the sun was about to rise over low-tide.
04:26 – two minutes in hand, but no rush or panic.
Cheers to Fraser, Gary, and all the volunteers and supporters who made this happen. We will absolutely be back!