Let’s hear it for the volunteers

The proverb says that one volunteer is worth ten pressed men. Martin Brice, a veteran Audaxer from Tunbridge Wells, got as far as a small town in the Scottish Lowlands on the London-Edinburgh-London ride before throwing in the towel. Instead of going home, he took the train back to London to support an army of LEL volunteers. He’s never looked back. Here’s Martin’s story of the dedicated band of unpaid helpers – the heroes who oil the wheels of one of British cycling’s toughest challenges

MARTIN BRICE

Martin Brice started cycling 60 years ago and is still going strong. During that time he has started many prestigious events such as LEL, PBP, the Essex Grand, Brussels-Paris-Brussels and The Borders of Belgium – but hasn’t necessarily finished them… as he says: “if success was guaranteed it wouldn’t be audacious.” He’ll be volunteering at LEL 2022 but hopes to ride it again because at least that’s one way of getting more sleep during the event.

THERE COMES A MOMENT when an LEL rider looks deep into his soul…and doesn’t like what he sees. That moment arrived for me at the Moffat control in 2013. I was exhausted. It was the point, for this rider at least, where dreams met reality – and reality won.

But that decision to pack opened a door through which I cheerfully stepped – becoming a volunteer on LEL. Though my dream was over, I discovered an opportunity to help others achieve their own dreams.

After a train ride south from Scotland, I joined the team of volunteers at the finish control – and it was a real privilege to hang medals around the necks of those exhausted, sweat-soaked, quivering wrecks who were shattered but jubilant at finishing. Many were friends who’d started the ride with me, and were full of astonished admiration that I’d finished before them – until I owned up.

Thanks to that experience in 2013, I volunteered at the next LEL in 2017. If I’d known then how grueling it was to be a volunteer, I might have opted to ride instead.

Looking back, the 2017 experience is a half-remembered blur of tiredness, train journeys to Scotland and back, and hundreds upon hundreds of conversations notable for both parties being really, really tired and not quite making sense.

It started on the Friday before registration. Volunteers were needed to set up the control. It seemed a good idea for someone to sleep on the floor inside the school. There was an extremely early start to the Saturday. My role that day was to be part of the reception desk team which involved dealing with a constant stream of requests for help and information.

That night I slept in the school again, on the floor next to the riders’ drop bags, just to be on the safe side. One rider from Russia had arrived without his bike. After a phone call by me to Heathrow airport, the bike was delivered at 1am, and he spent the next few hours rebuilding the thing. I know this because he did it on the other side of the door from where I trying to sleep.

Sunday was a great day as groups of riders set off. Some were young, fit, strong and well-equipped. Others were less young, less fit, perhaps less prepared. Some had BMI numbers higher than their wheel size. And some were old and their preparation had obviously involved riding Audax events for decades then chucking a few things in an ancient Carradice saddlebag. All were tense. There was an electricity in the air as riders pushed off to pit their dreams against reality.

After they all left, Danial Webb, the chief organiser of the event who has been running Audax UK’s flagship ride since 2010, was concerned there might be a shortage of hands at the Moffat control so asked me to take the train to Lockerbie where I’d be picked up by a van and taken to the control.

One four-hour train journey later, I was at the control with Audax veteran Chris Crosland. We were offered beds in a nearby holiday chalet but opted instead to put our sleeping bags on the floor of the school hall because we could just totter into the hall and fall asleep. This turned out to be a wise decision.

That night my role was to welcome riders as they entered the school. It started worryingly slowly. Throughout an event like LEL controllers are obsessed with the whereabouts of “the bulge” – a large number of riders whose arrival at a control is every controllers’ nightmare. It can turn a peaceful, relaxed and well-running operation into chaos as exhausted volunteers try to cope with hundreds of equally tired riders wanting drink, food and sleep as quickly as possible.

That day there had been some big rainstorms growling around and riders had often sheltered inside controls until the storms passed, then left en masse, so they tended to bunch together. More importantly, while sitting out the storm they’d lost time and were fretting by the time they arrived at the next control. Danial knew this was coming and had moved Chris and me ahead of the bulge.

My memory of the time in Moffat was a constant stream of riders, some soaking wet and exhausted and others cheerfully explaining they’d had a totally dry run and were loving every minute. I think Chris and I had a few hours’ sleep on the floor of the school hall.

On Tuesday the bulge had passed, the control was closing, and Danial seemed to have a pretty good idea of where the bulge was likely to strike next. So volunteers from Moffat were moved in a minibus to Eskdalemuir. Now, the hall at Moffat is big, with plenty of space. It ran like a well-oiled machine. Eskdalemuir is a small village hall in a small village and that night it was packed with hundreds upon hundreds of knackered riders and about a dozen exhausted volunteers.

It’s possible that Eskdalemuir is the most beautiful village set in the most gorgeous landscape in the world. It’s possible. I wouldn’t know.

After an hour outside being eaten alive by billions of the most voracious flesheating midges ever to have infested this planet, my role was moved indoors to help with arrivals. At the start of my shift this involved explaining why cycling shoes must be removed and put in a bag and thin blue nylon sock protectors worn. After several hours it degenerated into: “Sit there! Raise left foot! Raise right foot!” as I ripped shoes off, chucked them in a plastic bag, and shouted: “Go! Next!” Apologies to all, it was the only way of getting riders out of the weather.

Soon the entire hall floor was covered with sleeping bodies and it was difficult to move around. Amid the maelstrom I recall a wide-eyed, young couple from the US who were plainly beaten. They knew it. You could see it in their eyes. After all, LEL is one of the hardest rides in the world: it’s longer, hillier and has worse weather than just about any other similar event. They’d measured up their ambition against this Mighty Big Thing and come off worse. Now, they were broken. I suggested they have a nice cup of tea and a sit down, then a bit of sleep and see how they felt then.

For me, a few hours of sleep snatched on the floor upstairs became imperative in the early dawn. When I woke the rush seemed to have passed. The volunteers at Eskdalemuir did a fantastic job of just about keeping on top of things and they all deserved a medal, they were brilliant.

Then I was back in the minibus and being driven to Lockerbie station to get the train to London. My heart leapt at this news: so far I’d had about three or four hours sleep each night for five nights and had been wearing the same clothes for three days. A four hour sit-down in a nice warm train was just the ticket. I remember nothing of that journey.

My diary says I had a 27 hour shift at the finish and slept a few hours in the back of my car. This time passed in a blur of stunned riders struggling with their exhaustion and their ecstasy. At the finishing desk we had some volunteers keeping a wary eye on finishers, who displayed a worrying tendency to lie down unexpectedly.

One had eaten too quickly at the previous control so he could leave in a group with his mates, but he struggled to keep up with them to the finish and as soon as he was off the bike he was vomiting profusely over the back of a bench while I held his head. He had three hours in hand but chose to stay with his friends. Another finished the 1,400k event with three minutes to spare.

Shattered riders continued to straggle into the finish after struggling against the clock as they battled a brutal, merciless headwind across the Fens. These riders live ordinary lives, but they are extraordinary people.

And I was delighted to play a small part in their achievement. Each was a triumph. For me, the wide-eyed couple from the US, who seemed beaten at Eskdalemuir, stood out. They weren’t going to finish, so they had a bit of a rest, then rode to the next control – and all the way to the finish. You see, they were determined.

All you need to finish LEL is guts – and a volunteer who suggests a nice cup of tea and a sit down. It was an emotional moment to see them in their victory.