I see my dad as I crest the brow of the pass. He’s bent double, pushing into the wind on the short walk from the car to the pub. The wind is strong, gusting 60mph, maybe 70mph – strong enough to stop me dead in my tracks on the last corner before the summit, forcing me to unclip my foot from the pedal to avoid toppling over.
Thankfully it’s just coming up to 11am and the pub at the top of the Kirkstone Pass is about to open. The landlord says the view is beautiful, but it’s invisible through the low cloud and driving horizontal rain.
We’re in the Lake District in the last week of June, on day six of my ride from Land’s End to John O’Groats. I’m riding on my own, with my dad driving the support car.
This is how it used to be 20 years ago, the two of us together. In the winter we’d drive to cross-country races on a Saturday. Getting lost, usually somewhere in west London, was a recurrent theme that became part of the ritual. We raced together. I was new to the sport; he was in the twilight of his competitive athletic career. In the summer we swapped the country for the road. Ten-mile road races, now superseded by the ubiquitous 10k, were our favourite. But for several summers our main focus was the track, with him as coach and me pounding out the laps of the training sessions he devised. I desperately wanted to run faster than two minutes dead for 800m, one of the yardsticks for a club-level runner to break. I never imagined you could run so many two-lap races in times between two minutes and two minutes one second, but eventually I dipped under the barrier. Of course he was there, at the finish line, standing behind the official timekeepers with his stopwatch, to make sure he recorded my time accurately.
A viral illness, which became a chronic problem, ended my running career at the end of the 1980s, and precluded me from any serious exercise for the next decade. When I recovered sufficiently to resume some form of activity, I found it easier to control my exertion level on a bike than when running. But what started as expediency soon gave way to a passion for cycling. While not sharing my fascination for hubs and other shiny bike bits, dad keenly followed my cycling progress. His first question whenever we speak is invariably, “Have you been out?”
Initially, when I was barely able to manage 20 miles, the thought of riding the 900-odd miles of the End-to-End seemed far-fetched. But the idea, once planted in my mind, wouldn’t go away. After a few years of gradual build-up on the bike, it entered the realms of possibility. Riding with a support car was infinitely more appealing than the thought of dragging heavy panniers up Cornish hills. Navigationally challenged though he is, there was only one driver I wanted to accompany me.
On the End-to-End, dad’s role is more soigneur than coach. He buys the cakes, fills the thermos and even goes to the launderette to wash my cycling kit while I soak in the bath at the end of the day’s exertions. I ride until about 4pm each day and while I recover he finds a pub or restaurant for us to eat in that evening. His support, both mental and physical, is invaluable, not least because the weather is diabolical. When I imagined the ride I pictured balmy summer days with a gentle following southerly breeze, but from the outset we have been met with torrential rain. Sheffield and other towns are underwater and the M1 has been shut because of flooding.
In the pub at the top of the pass I consider the latest turn of events. Faced with an 80-mile slog through the peaks of the Lake District and on into the Scottish borders, the wind has changed to become a strong northerly headwind. There are still 60 miles to go today and I’m already exhausted from the seven-mile climb up from Windermere into the teeth of the gale.
Dad and I agree that today, because of the tough conditions, we’ll meet up more regularly, every hour or so, for short breaks to give me a respite from the interminable wind. Later that afternoon, reduced to a crawl, I pull into the latest of a string of lay-bys.
I can see him through the steamed-up windows of the car. I’m so glad he’s there. He always has been.
Vince Heaney, London, UK.. Still learning how to suffer on a bike. vince@heaney.com. www.joemclaren.com.
