21 minute read
Flying blind
On the relentlessly punishing last leg of 2021’s inaugural Bristol-Glasgow-Bristol 1,600km, 37 year old Halifax rider John Allan, right, experienced such serious eye problems he thought he was losing his eyesight. This is John’s account of an exhausting seven-day slog on a ride which is surely destined to become a must-do Audax – for masochists!
‘I prayed I’d done no lasting damage to my eyes’
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I DIDN’T REALLY THINK this through! Actually, that’s a lie. I did think it through… but rather too quickly. I decided to give Bristol-Glasgow-Bristol a shot just three weeks before the start. I’m not at my fittest, but I had a suitable bike, pretty much ready to ride, some spare holiday entitlement… and it sounded like fun.
You can’t get much fitter in three weeks, but you can get tired trying. I just made sure my bike was in good fettle, and aimed to get plenty of rest. I persuaded myself that this would be a sort of holiday. Seven days of cycling. I’d only need to cover 233k each day… totally manageable in my head, even though it was twice as far as I’d ever ridden in a week. So – almost like a proper holiday…except without rest, company or luxuries.
DAY 1
I stole a few hours’ sleep in my van before a 3.15am alarm. Quickly dressed and fed, I cycled the 30-minutes into Bristol city centre, ahead of the scheduled 5am departure from the cathedral.
The ride into the city was a real awakening. The nightlife was in full swing, bars and cafes still open, music playing and revellers staggering the streets. My preferred type of nightlife these days is spotting owls, badgers and foxes in the countryside and these city creatures made me feel uneasy. Still, I located the cathedral and met the other riders for the Grand Depart. There were only 12 of us but grand enough for me.
After a few encouraging words from organiser Will Pomeroy of Audax Club Bristol, we were off – and the group instantly spread out. I don’t like riding in a group anyway so it suited me just fine. It was warm and dry, and the forecast suggested it would stay that way for the week ahead. I had reservations, knowing that the route goes through Wales, northern England and Scotland before heading south again. The British weather can be fickle.
I crossed the Severn and headed into South Wales, through the gently rolling roads of the Wye Valley, past the Black Mountains and the eastern side of the Brecon Beacons, then northwards to the first control at Hay-on-Wye. Things ramped up a bit in Mid-Wales; steeper gradients, narrow lanes with grass up the middle, and wild ponies. I was keeping my eye open for birds of prey, having learned that
John Allan is an engineer whose home is in Halifax, West Yorkshire. He joined AUK just a couple of years ago, having completed several local calendar events of up to 200km before joining. John rode the Steele Roads and Woolly Hills 400 – his only long-distance Audax – before tackling Bristol-Glasgow-Bristol. He’s taken part in a number of non-Audax rides, though, including the Hell of the North West 800km, the Yorkshire Dales 300km, and the Dales Divide 600km. Readers will be keen to learn if John recovered full eyesight after the problems encountered on BGB. He says: “I think the main issue was overuse of contact lenses and possibly poor hygiene – sweat, dirty hands, etc. The discomfort disappeared a couple of days after the ride, but my prescription has changed permanently, which is worrying. If I do anything like that again, I’ll wear prescription cycling glasses.”
Flying blind
merlins were hunting in pairs in the area. I was keen to catch a glimpse of the UK’s smallest birds of prey. Sadly the only thing I experienced was a close encounter with a common buzzard – still a magnificent creature.
My goal for the day was to clear the Welsh hills and hit the flatlands of Cheshire. Cycling in Wales is fantastic, and gets better as you head north. Along the shore of Lake Vyrnwy, over Bwlch-y-Groes in Snowdonia, then towards the last of the hills and a serious kick to make certain the legs were battered before crossing the border.
The Clwydian Range is only small but the brutally steep Bwlch Pen Barras gets the job done with a series of 25 per cent ramps and hairpins. The sun dropped as I topped out. The result was a landscape of soft light. I pulled on an
Summit view… on top of the Wrynose Pass, Langdale in Cumbria
extra layer for the descent, and the coming darkness.
In Chester I ordered the largest vegetarian pizza on the menu. It was 10pm, and I felt I could pedal for a few more hours. There was still a long way to go. Chester golf course was a good place to pitch the tent for the night. Distance 300.5km. Ascent 5,788m. Time 17 hours
DAY 2
I broke camp at 5.30am, expecting a reasonably fast start to the day. The first 100km from Chester to Preston was almost flat, but my legs weren’t responding. The humpback bridges felt like mountains, and the morning traffic, road works and red lights slowed progress. The fastest stretch was along the Chester Greenway – being chased
by a relentless Jack Russell.
I was glad to leave Preston, the last urban area before the Forest of Bowland. I enjoyed a chocolate Magnum in the pretty village Slaidburn to remind myself I was on holiday, then hit the climb up the wonderfully picturesque Cross of Greet road, passing the medieval cross base – a sandstone block which once held a stone cross marking the border between Yorkshire and Lancashire. Then it was a rapid descent towards the Yorkshire Dales. I was having a great time.
The summit of Cam High Road marks the highest point above sea level on the whole route – and the first proper off-road section. A long, loose gravel climb followed by a bone-shaking, bike-breaking drop down the rocky old Roman road into Bainbridge. Then it was up the Fleak Moss, and a rocky mountain bike descent to Crackpot.
The hideously steep track to Reeth High Moor and the Old Gang smelting mills completely toasted the legs ahead of the final Dales climb, the Stang. Sighting a beautiful white barn owl hunting low over the fields in the fading light is a moment I’ll remember.
I caught up with another couple of riders outside the Co-op in Barnard Castle. We all agreed the ride was taking longer than expected. I’d only covered 200km so far that day. I stocked up on supplies, pulled on another layer and headed off into the evening fog rolling over the north Pennines.
After 60km of steep, dark, foggy and remote Pennine hills I rolled into Hexham – the thought of a midnight pizza keeping me going. At a 24 hour garage I used the facilities to wash off two days of grime. Not a pretty sight.
Having fallen a bit short, I decided to save time by not pitching the tent, settling down instead in my sleeping back at the back of a fence. I could hear lots of scurrying, but assuming it to be rabbits, I dropped off to sleep for a few hours before my 4.30am alarm. Distance 269km. Ascent 4,824m. Time 19 hours.
DAY 3
Having brewed coffee and instant porridge, curiosity got the better of me. I decided to check the area next to fence where I’d slept. It was the gate to a bin area. The scurrying must have been rats!
With freezing mist hanging the valleys I was struggling to keep warm. My knees were aching and sitting on the saddle hurt. Two lumps had appeared on my sit bones, each the size of an apple. I swallowed a couple of painkillers and an hour later the lumps seemed to flatten out.
I took a detour for coffee in Bellingham, then on to the gravel section in the Keilder Forest. The Scottish border felt like a
milestone, so I took a picture of the ‘welcome’ sign and let my fiancée, Kirsty Patten, know I was ok.
Macaroni pies and Iron Bru settled my grumbling stomach in Newcastleton, then it was onwards across moors and farmland towards Lochmaben – the last re-supply point for a long time. This is a nice, quiet part of the world; not hugely spectacular, but green and pleasant.
All I really noticed about Dumfries and Galloway was the lack of shops along the route. I’d never visited the area before and didn’t expect much, but Galloway Forest was a real treat – 20km of gravel track between Clatteringshaws Loch and Glentrool, along the loch shores then into the forest.
The roads which followed were nothing short of perfect – smooth and fast, up and down, traffic free and beautifully remote. Cresting Nick of the Ballock pass, the sun set and the temperature dropped but I was feeling stronger than I’d felt all day. I was learning to enjoy the highs and just ride out the lows – they don’t last forever.
Tiredness came on fast with the onset of darkness. Riding along an unlit road I braced myself for the large moth that appeared at eye level – as a bat snatched it, inches from my face.
Reaching Dalrymple I decided I’d had enough for the day. The village didn’t seem to offer any bivvy spots. It was only 10pm so too early to crash in a bus shelter. I pitched the tent in a corner of a quiet field. I don’t really like camping on private land but I couldn’t see any option. Distance 268km. Ascent 3,779m. Time 17.30 hours.
DAY 4
By now, my tent and sleeping bag were soaked with condensation. I decided to stay in a Travelodge the next night, and dry everything out. The morning ride was unremarkable, but I was tired, hungry and still heading north. I needed to get to Glasgow, and turn back south.
Glasgow was far too busy. I crossed the Clyde to obtain proof of passage, and turned straight around. My clothes by this time were filthy, and I was stinking. Good for social distancing, I guess. Progress away from the city was good. It was baking hot with little wind. The GPS was reading 30 degrees – surely a first for Scotland?
About 50km south of Glasgow the route picked up the NCN 74 which runs adjacent to the M74. The surface was terrible – the worst I’ve ever experienced, like golf balls bonded with tar. I’d not given much thought to my feet and the heat and constant vibration was taking its toll. My toes were numb and the soles were on fire. It was an energy-sapping 50km stretch. By the time I reached Lochmaben I was cooked.
I considered my options for the night. My sleeping stuff was still soaking. I needed to re-charge the power bank. A Premier Inn in Carlisle seemed an obvious destination for a shower, cooked meal and an early night – until I saw the prices. A second option was riding a bit further, to Caldbeck, to stay on an actual campsite with a shower for £5.
The temperature dropped as the sun set on the approach to Caldbeck. The familiar landscape of the fells made it feel like home. It was dark when I reached the campsite, so no chance of drying my gear. I was so tired I wasn’t even bothered about drinking a beer at the local pub. I ate an Aldi falafel, my gear still wet, the Power Bank uncharged, but £163 richer. Distance 251km. Ascent 2,396m. Time 15.10 hours.
DAY 5
I thought a wet tent and bag would be a bigger issue but it wasn’t so bad. If I could camp every night I’ll be happier knowing I completed it unsupported. But it was becoming apparent that the early part of the days were becoming a struggle. Waking early was fine, but it was taking longer for my body to respond. My knees were wrecked, my undercarriage swollen and tender, and I couldn’t feel my toes. After a second breakfast of painkillers and Eccles cakes, I settled into a rhythm.
Hardknott Pass has a fearful reputation but it’s probably one of my favourites. With 20kgs of bike and luggage, I knew I wouldn’t be breaking any records, but I was determined not to push. The setting is dramatic, and the hairpin bends make it the steepest road in England. I had to exert a lot of effort, and by the time I crested I realised I’d probably made a mistake. My knees were worse than ever, stiff, swollen and painful. Even walking was difficult.
Then it was along the valley, over Wrynose Pass and into the tourist traffic around Langdale. The roads were gridlocked, but I managed to filter my way to the front – where an HGV was struggling up the narrow, winding road. Following it was dangerous as it was bashing the lower branches of trees. Then it was on towards Ambleside, and south along the shore of Windermere.
Lancashire is often a surprise. I enjoy the quiet roads, old churches and historic houses. The Bowland Fells presented the next obstacle. Hornby Road, also known as the Salter Fell track, is a special place. Described by A. Wainwright as one of the finest moorland walks in the country, I probably wouldn’t disagree but I was determined not to walk. It’s an old military road built by the Romans, but probably following an existing Iron-age track. It later became a medieval pack-horse route and likely the way the Pendle Witches were dragged from Clitheroe to Lancaster for trial and execution in the 17th century.
The area is captivating – wild and expansive, big skies, steep valleys and far-reaching views of windswept moors. The track disappears over the horizon in the distance and once you reach the summit at 400m, it appears to stretch forever. Rocky and rutted, it required concentration to pick the best lines.
The Forest of Bowland symbol is a hen harrier and once-upon-a-time supported one of the largest populations in the UK. There are very few left, and it’s only through recent conservation work that they’ve been saved from extinction. Off the moors, another forecourt meal-deal and I was ready to climb Nick ‘O Pendle before the sun set.
My vision had been hazy for most of the day, becoming more apparent when swapping sunglasses for clear lenses. I tried to ignore it but it was no use. I decided to change my left contact lens at the roadside. Removing the lens was agony and replacing it made it worse. I
can’t explain the pain but after riding a short distance I decided to remove it. By now I’d lost any useful vision in my left eye; it felt like it was burning and was streaming with water. I fashioned an eye patch out of a buff but the pressure caused a searing pain, so unbearable it was quickly removed.
With the fading light and loss of vision, things only got worse. I couldn’t see the GPS, there was no sense of depth perception and the light from oncoming vehicles became so dazzling I had to drop my head to block the light. I knew I couldn’t carry on so stopped to weigh up my options. My fiancé, Kirsty, was only about 30 minutes’ drive away in Halifax and I knew she’d pick me up in a heartbeat. That was the easy option but I’m not a quitter. I thought about asking her to drop off my glasses but realised they were in my van – in Bristol. I decided it was best to get some sleep and hope for a miraculous overnight recovery.
I followed the route slowly, nearly crashing a few times and missing several turns, heading towards the hills of Rooley Moor. I couldn’t ride without losing balance, so I got off and pushed for the first time. Barely able to see where to put my feet, I spent some time staggering around looking for somewhere to pitch the sodden tent. Getting into the wet sleeping bag, I took out the other contact lens, which brought the same pain, and almost complete loss of vision in both eyes. I felt helpless and empty. I’d covered just 210km despite being on the move for 16 hours. I set my alarm and tried to rest. Distance 212km. Ascent 4,316m. Time 15.50 hours.
DAY 6
It was a restless sleep. When I woke I could see a little better. My eyes still hurt but were working again. I plucked up the courage to try the contact lenses again. The searing pain returned, and water streamed down my cheeks. But I could see!
Nothing quite wakes you like a cold, damp and bone-shaking decent down a mile of cobbles in the dark. It was still dark when riding through Rochdale and Oldham. Morning had broken by the time I reached Glossop. I was in desperate need of some charge for my GPS. Stopping for breakfast at a café I took advantage of the plug socket. This was day six of the ride – and the first time I’d sat down for a meal.
Cobbles… descending the Cotton famine road into Rochdale
On the trip to the toilet I glanced in the mirror and saw my shocking reflection. I didn’t feel too bad, but my face told a different story.
Only 300km to go. With the serious off-road sections and big climbs boxed off, I was confident I could finish in one go. The climb up Snake Pass was enjoyable – it’s a long drag, but the gradient is easy. It started raining, but it felt refreshing. It wouldn’t be a proper ride without a bit of weather and my clothes needed a wash anyway.
The long descent drained the heat from my body so I pedalled hard until the turning across Ladybower Reservoir. Still cold, I decided to put a jacket on but it was a bit late. I’d some flu-like symptoms which stayed with me for hours to come.
The Peak District passed by easily in a series of quite lanes and villages. Before long I was in Derby, riding down the high street and dodging swarms of people. Absolutely not prepared after six days of solitude and as much as wanted some fastfood, I rode on by.
The GPS battery needed another charge. On reaching Atherstone I found a chippy with seating, so I settled for the second meal of the day – a veggie burger with chips and salad, polished off with two full teapots while the charger did its thing. An hour passed. I wished I was pushing towards the finish… and not for the first time, cursed my decision to leave the dynamo charger at home.
South of Derby was all new territory. I was enjoying the change – most notably, the quality of the tarmac. There were no pot holes, and very few hills, either. As the daylight faded, so did my eyesight. There’d been discomfort all day but after another 16 hours of wearing contact lenses, the cloudy vision of yesterday returned and it was getting worse. I suspected this might happen and was fairly certain it was caused by the lenses, rather than some condition brought about by extreme fatigue. I knew it was only going to get worse.
In Stafford-upon-Avon I bought final supplies. The light hurt my eyes and I couldn’t read the packaging. I felt like a drunk but managed to collect what I needed and pay the blurry character behind the till without seeing his face. It was obvious I couldn’t ride much further, so any hope of finishing without another camp was out of the question. I hoped that, with a few hours rest without lenses, my vision would be restored sufficiently for me to reach the finish. I was also praying that I’d done no lasting damage to my eyes.
Into the Cotswolds, I did my best to stay upright and follow the dim light. The light from oncoming cars was painfully blinding. Having never been to the Cotswolds I wasn’t sure what kind of camping spot I might find. I eventually found a National Trust car park. There were a couple of cars with their interior lights on, but I was past caring about dodgy characters. I went through a kissing gate, startled some sheep, and found a spot. I managed to get the tent up and get into my cold, wet and all-too-familiar sleeping bag.
Pulling the contact lenses off my eyeballs was the most painful thing I can recall. I was convinced I’d done irreversible damage and that I would never see again. It felt like part of my eye had come away with each lens. I couldn’t see anything. Keeping my eyes open hurt – closing them hurt more. The pain made sleep impossible, but eventually it subsided and I managed to get some rest. Only 100km from Bristol. Distance 243km. Ascent 3,043m. Time 17.40 hours.
DAY 7
Once again, my vision had returned when I woke up. The pain was still there, but not as bad. My mood lifted, and the feelings of
disappointment of the night were replaced with hope. I had the whole day ahead to ride the final few kilometres, so no rush. I decided to enjoy the final day.
The stinking wet cycling clothes went back on, then the painful business of pressing on another set of contact lenses. The sky lightened to reveal a low mist and drizzle, so I pulled on my waterproof and took to the road at 6am.
My knees still felt stiff but tight tendons and swollen sit bones settled down after a cocktail of painkillers. I was soon zipping along the lanes with relative vigour. I must have looked a peculiar sight in the Colebourne petrol station where I stopped for final supplies. It was a posh store, full of tasty baked goods and artisan breads. I must have looked and smelled like a tramp with an armful of luxury items. The well-spoken female attendant politely asked if I needed help. She asked if I’d come far. She clearly didn’t expect my reply. She allowed me to charge my dead phone battery while drinking a coffee – outside on the forecourt.
The weather cleared up and I was enjoying the scenery when a cycling club zipped past in a well-practiced formation. Without a second thought I stomped on the power to catch the peloton. It seemed like a bit of fun on a loaded bike after a week on the road but after a few minutes of wheel-hugging, my legs died and I instantly regretted the effort.
The wide high street of the historic market town of Chipping Sodbury was lined with a hundred colourful stalls for the annual food festival. The air was full of delicious smells. Bunting criss-crossed the streets. I wasn’t tempted to stop. But after almost a week of solitude it was a bit overwhelming and I felt almost alien among the crowds.
Looking forward to the homemade pizza I stopped and fired a quick WhatsApp message to Will to get the oven warmed up, and then steadily tapped out the remaining distance along quiet lanes and cycle ways, back to the heart of Bristol. My GPS announced my arrival, but I wasn’t sure where I’d actually arrived. I was in the middle of a residential street, and it took me a while to think for myself. Then I spotted a piece of paper pinned to a gate. Moving closer I saw it said “Arrivée!” Distance 106km. Ascent 1,410m. Time 6.21 hours.
Cotswold escarpment… Kingscote woods just 40km from the finish
● Many thanks to Will Pomeroy for putting
together such a superb and challenging route. The pizza was the best thing I’d tasted all week and the whisky was a most welcome surprise.
