Erstellt am: 11. 9. 2014 - 05:30 Uhr
The Long Road To Scotland
The wind came barrelling down the barren Scottish mountains, bending the purple heather double and slapping us in the face with gusts of up to 100km per hour.
These were the death throws of ex-hurricane Bertha, an Atlantic storm that was circling around Scotland, turning what would have been a challenging climb in normal conditions into a bit of an ordeal. At times it was hard to keep the pedals turning.
Chris Cummins
But this is what I'd come for. I wanted some sense of the epic. 700km ago we'd set off from Wembley Stadium in London heading for the Scottish capital Edinburgh, and now we'd hit the final challenge and the greatest treat: the raw, romantic wildness of the north.
The shallow, brown-green and purple hills of Scotland have endless sweeping panoramas. They are wind-swept even on calm days, and it was no surprise to see a vast wind farm whirring in the distance. Ducking behind my friend Robin's wheel, we passed the choppy water of a mountain lake and then a copse of centuries old wind-scarred trees woods planted in regimental rows by a hardy Scottish baron.
Chris Cummins
Then as we turned over the back of the ridge of hills, we could already see the grey coastline of the North Sea. There, northwards and huddled under the volcanic peaks of Calton Hill, Castle Rock and Arthur's Seat, we could just make out Edinburgh. After 4 days and over 30 hours in the saddle, pedaling through spells of sunshine, torrential downpours and fierce winds, we had glimpsed the finish.
I had taken part in a “sportive”, or challenge ride, called the Rat Race Road Trip, a non-competitive but organized ride. It's just one part of an unprecedented boom in the popularity of grassroots cycling events in Britain that I had been longing to be part of. Perhaps buoyed by the success of the track and road elite athletes, Brits have taken to their bikes in their thousands.
"I think the Tour de France starting in Yorkshire has made a massive difference to cycling in Britain this year", said Hannah from the organizing team, "The boom has been great. And it is so encouraged these days. Everyone is encouraged to get on the bike, to get fit and stay healthy"
Tax Break For Cyclists
The boom helped by government programmes such as the Cycle to Work Scheme in which the state subsidizes new bike purchases. The number of sportives has surged 34% since 2012 – there are hundreds all across the UK with thousands of hobby cyclists taking part.
"The good thing about these event is people come on their own but they make friends along the way", said Hannah, "Everyone camps together. You get to interact together and everyone rallies together and have a good time."
Chris Cummins
A Cycling Revolution
Given that figures this summer showing that the UK spends 10 billion pounds on obesity drugs – any scheme to get people active and enjoying cycling make sense, particularly if the love of bikes extends to using them as a replacement for motor cars.
In July a report claimed London suffered the worst motor vehicle-induced pollution in the world. So I wanted to show my support for the British “cycling revolution” while also seeing more of the country I’d grown up in but have rarely explored in depth.
chris cummins
There was added poignancy for me too: with Scotland voting on independence on the 18th of September, it was my last chance to visit before, after over 300 years of union, it potentially became a foreign country to me.
“You have no such accurate remembrance of country you have driven through as you gain by riding a bicycle”, wrote Hemingway, and certainly I hadn’t realised how large Britain was until I started cycling across it.
After almost an hour and a half after setting off from Wembley Stadium we were still in the northern outskirts of sprawling capital London. There were layers and layers of these grey suburbs, Victorian residences, giving way to Edwardian-era semi-detached houses and then depressing grey-concrete neighbourhoods dominated by large roads and roundabouts.
Then, even as I was growing nostalgic for the compact, concentric Vienna, we were suddenly in fairy-tale English countryside. Narrow winding roads were lined by high green hedgerows flowered with hawthorn leading to ginger-bread villages that were dominated by alluring pubs.
“The bicycle, the bicycle surely, should always be the vehicle of novelists and poets,” claimed Christopher Morley. You can see his point. A lot can happen on a day on your bike - you see a lot and you go through an extraordinary range of emotions.
My friend, and fellow Uganda veteran, Alex, threw himself off his bike, flirting with the oncoming traffic: “I’ve had worse in rugby games,” he said, brushing the grit out of his road rash.
The Cycle of Emotions
We were hit by hail storm, feeling like Antarctic explorers as we cycled with gritted teeth with the little bullets of ice pelted our reddening cheeks and then, suddenly, we came out of the rain and were cruising easily through the sun-warmed undulating park landscapes of Cambridgeshire and Lincolnshire. The freshly harvested grain fields smelled of endless summer and the warm sandstone colours of the houses hinted at prosperous comfort.
Power Stations and Fish N'Chips
On the second day, with the sun out, we crossed the wind-swept flats of Nottinghamshire, “Robin Hood Country” as the brown tourism signs constantly reminded us. As we headed north, the landscape seemed increasingly raw and now the huge chimneys of power stations loomed on the landscape.
Chris Cummins
This was once mining country and during this late summer cold snap, you could smell the coal smoke from brick homes of the villages. By Yorkshire, the northern county where I grew up, the accents had changed and dark grey stone had replaced brick. the stones of the houses were darker. There was the smell of fish and chip shops on the high streets and the copses of woodland gave out the foetid scent of bracken and moss as we sped past.
The Attack of Bertha
There is no first or last place in sportives, so when we pulled in for pit stops, riders stopped to chat while they munched on giant flapjacks and cups of tea. All very British. It made a welcome relief from the grab and run atmosphere of a race.
On day 3, the long-feared rainstorms of ex-hurricane Bertha swept overhead. The radio had issued “severe weather warnings” the laughter and teasing increased as we under a small canvas during an intense downpour.
Chris Cummins
Most riders had already survived two nights of overnight camping and were displaying that peculiarly British insistence chirpiness in adversity. “Why on earth are we doing this?” grinned a rider from Lancashire as he we swept past us after a steep rain-drenched climb through a grim Durham colliery town.
chris cummins
But despite the hefty side and head winds of the final day’s riding it was a joy to ride into Scotland. The last stretch of north England, a county called, Northumberland, is one of the remotest and most underrated parts of the country.
We rode on narrow, bobbly roads where the floods of the last night's rain had only just subsided, with moody dark flat-backed hills brooding in the background. It was a region of vast sheep herds and we passed the grand stonewalls of the vast Downtown Abbey-style estates that once owned most of the land here.
chris cummins
An innocuous stone bridge over the river Tweed marked the border between Scotland and England, with only fly fishermen manning the border on each side, angling for trout. “Welcome to Scotland”, read the sign, but we were greeted with an unwelcoming steep hill.
chris cummins
As a northern Englishman, it would seem to be sad if, after 300 hundred years of union, this sleepy river became a state border. I have always felt a kinship with Scotland, a beautiful, hardy country whose people, I think, have shaped British identity as much as anyone else. But, in politics as in love, even if you are happy in a relationship, if your partner wants out, you have to accept it and wish them well.
Three hours into Scotland and we were already nearing the end of the ride. As the next squall of rain approached we were into the grey-stoned, traffic clogged suburbs of Edinburgh. As we hit the city centre the Fringe Festival was in full flow, and, through the open door of a bar, we glimpsed a singing stand-up comedian accompanied by an acoustic guitar.
Ten minutes later and the bulk of Scotland's national rugby stadium was in view. We sped through a gap onto the astroturf of the field and through the inflatable arches of the finish.
chris cummins
"I'm actually sad it is over," said Lewis, from southern England. "After two days I wanted to quit, but now I feel fantastic."