I used to climb the occasional mountain, and would stay in the Highlands with a gang of hill-walking friends. We looked down on the
Munro baggers who wouldn’t choose a mountain for its interesting scrambles or dramatic beauty but because it was over 3,000 feet high. They would prefer to slog up the dullest Munro rather than scramble up something craggy and spectacular that was smaller than 3,000 feet, and they wouldn’t re-climb a fine Munro mountain if they had already ticked it off the list. We thought this attitude missed the whole point of climbing mountains and would bitch about the Munro baggers if one, a friend of a friend, would turn up to join the gang in the rented cottage at Torridon.
I go cycling to enjoy the landscape and history, and for the exercise. However, I did
seventy miles in one day once, a lot for me, though it would be nothing for a club cyclist who would knock that off in a morning , and so I got it in my head that one day I would complete 100 miles. I calculated that would take me about 14 hours, so it would have to be done at high summer, but July was so wet that I could barely get out at all at the weekends, August looked promising and I did do a 70 mile stretch without much pain, and so was limbered up to do the whole ton. A friend would ask me if I had done that cycle yet, every time he spoke to me.
A fine weekend in August, and I fell ill and was off work for a week, fit only for blogging. The summer was running out, and I had to do it now or wait for next year. So with a forecast for a north-west wind and showers last Sunday I left before sunrise, at about 5:50am. I had barely slept and felt awful. It took me an hour to get out of the city to the south, on the National Cycle Network 1. It was raining. By 8am I was well up the Moorfoot Hills on a quiet little road and the sun was up. A few miles further on, amidst the sweet smell of countryside after the rain and with the sun filtering through leaves, I had a puncture. I had a spare tube, but it’s tricky work getting it into the tyre and though I pumped vigorously I could not hand pump it to Viagara rock hardness. It was definitely spongy, and I kept on stopping to see if it had deflated again. It hadn’t, but I ‘d make a pointless attempt to pump it up further and black cattle would wander over in that leisurely way they have and poke their black shiny noses through the fence to sniff at the cycle seat in a like pervs. Cycling on a soft tyre is very tiring, like walking through ploughed fields or sand. Also, I had somehow knocked out the gearing and it would delay its change then slip upwards or downwards with a sudden jerk. So I missed out on the fine views that the map tells you get from the Moorfoots and was indifferent to the high steep slopes and heather, but shivered in the cold wind, and pushed on, downhill mostly, thinking I would have to shorten the trip and stop off somewhere. Meanwhile dozens of cyclists without panniers so evidently doing day cycles were streaming up the other way. They were going into the wind and seemed twice as brisk as me.
I finally got to Innerleithen, a little town in the hills. I asked a waitress in the café if there was a garage, thinking that they might have a foot pump. She said there wasn’t a garage, but there were two bike shops. “Open on a Sunday?” “Yes. It’s cycling city here, you know,” she said. I remembered that I’d come out with
my work here once to do some mountain biking. So I took the cycle down to a shop where a young guy fixed the gears and pumped up the tyre for £5, and sold me a spare tube.
It was now just before 12. I’d done the worst bit of the trip, 46 miles or so including a hill climb and a puncture, and so it looked as though I’d be able to finish. So on rock hard tyres, it was an easy undulating cycle along the Tweed valley. This is part of the Abbeys route and there’s plenty to stop off and see like Melrose Abbery and Dryburgh Abbey as well as Walter Scott’s house in Abbotsford, but I had no time for that but pushed on through showers and a nippy wind, mostly behind me, but sometimes against my face as the route twisted around until I hit Kelso. I’d completed another 30 miles and it was now 4:15pm. I had some coffee and cake in Kelso and found I had lost my map.
I was then confused by signs, which pointed to Newton St Boswells, which I’d passed through, and to Coldstream, which I was pretty sure I hadn’t but had no map to reassure me. So when I got on a B road and a sign that said Berwick 23 miles I stuck to that, ignoring the National Cycle Network signs pointing up side roads. The B6461 must have been built fairly recently as it barely touched a village but went straight across gently rolling farmland, and would have been very easy going at the beginning of the day. The first hour the caffeine and sugar I’d had in Kelso gave me some energy, then it became more and more taxing. The gold and brown fields with the usual hedges, clumps of trees and big stone houses seemed as monotonous and dreary as the Russian steppes. I was worn out and saddle-sore. Coming up to one small hill , a slight rise, which I would normally not notice I had to stop and walk. I mentally counted down the miles - 13 - 12 - 11 - 10 - 9 - then would pass a signpost that said “12”. I went on with all the total lack of enjoyment of a marathon runner two miles short of the finishing line. I was heading towards the sea but I never got a glimpse of blue to raise my spirits. At last I hit the A1, crossed it and did the steep drop into Berwick-upon-Tweed It was 7:30 pm. I had been on the road for 13 ½ hours, about 2 hours of which had been stopping and eating. I’d done about 96 miles.
It was the English bank holiday weekend and the hostels and B&Bs were full but eventually I found one with a vacancy. The landlord handed me some keys and showed me round. “Have you given me the front door key?” I said. “Yes,” he said, and told me about breakfast and would I order it now? He took me downstairs:. “Have you given me the front door key?” I asked. “You’ve already asked me that.” I was a total zombie. Thankfully, the B&B did have a bath and I lay in that for some time before falling asleep at 10pm.
I stayed the day in Berwick, limping around the town, which is attractive and interesting and it was a fine, warm day, so I sat a good deal in the sun and read. The next day I headed out of town, choosing the coastal route, the NCN 76. As I climbed the hill I saw one of those narrow blue NCN signs - Edinburgh 100. I’d lost 7 miles on the Kelso to Berwick leg by taking the direct B road, on the other hand I could add about 3 to calculate the distance from my house to where the route begins. 96 miles, then not 100. I cycled 35 miles to Dunbar in 4 hours, and though I was perfectly fit and could have completed the full 70 to Edinburgh without much effort, I’d become totally fed up with cycling so went to the station and caught the next train home.
