Thanks to the delay in my rail journey north to Scotland, I now had a piece missing from my NW Cardinal Spin. I have experienced a couple of minor breaks before, one in Scotland and one in Cornwall, that I have gone back and fixed when I had the chance. Now, today, was my opportunity to do the same here. It promised, at least, to be a dry day, which was an improvement on the forecast in the Highlands, where my day began. It wasn’t an easy decision to leave, because I was now heading back towards home and away from the distant Hebrides; but in the circumstances – with the best information available – it seemed that I would at least be giving myself a chance to cycle somewhere most of the time in the coming week, perhaps even in sunshine. That would have to do.
And so I rolled down the steep hill into Fort William and boarded the 7.44am departure to Glasgow. It is a journey through wild and magnificent mountain scenery and even on a grey, brooding day like this you couldn’t fail to be impressed. I enjoyed what was on offer until Crianlarich, above Loch Lomond, at which point I nodded off until we had almost reached Glasgow. Sure enough, it was dry on arrival and my first task was to find an early and fairly quick lunch in the city centre. It wasn’t sitting outside weather, and I had a bike, which was a bad combination; but I found and excellent place in the Merchant City that fronted onto a quiet courtyard and served a memorable Croque Madame with their house made sourdough bread, so I felt generally good about things setting off towards the banks of the River Clyde, albeit aware that it was already well past noon.
The maths was pretty simple. I had six and a half hours to complete 76 miles into a headwind over some quite hilly country, in order to reach Lockerbie. I needed to be on the 1911 departure to Manchester. If I missed it, I would not get home tonight, and I would have to make some other arrangement. It would also be getting dark by 7pm. Had I made a mistake? It all sounded sensible last night. Now, heading out of Glasgow, I wasn’t at all sure. At the very least, I would have to maintain a higher than typical average speed for the whole time, wind notwithstanding, to stand a chance. The best I could say was that if I did really well, it would be horribly close, and even if I performed heroics, I might come up just short. I also knew I couldn’t reasonably ride like that without stopping at some point. I would need to take on sustenance. That would use precious time. It was a finely balanced equation.
I decided to give it a go. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. I would formulate a plan B as I rode, and not flog a dead horse if it turned out that I was riding one. The first hour out of Glasgow went well. It involved cycling all along the northern bank of the River Clyde, heading inland roughly south east along a well made cycle path. It was actually very pleasant and I would recommend it for enjoyment if I lived there. I wouldn’t say the same about the section that followed.
The area of industrial hinterland to the south of Glasgow isn’t an obvious holiday destination, even on a nice day. The railway and the motorway whisk you quickly through it, transporting people magically from the middle of cosmopolitan Glasgow to the wild, empty countryside of the Southern Uplands (or vice versa) without coming into direct contact with the likes of Hamilton, Larkhall, Blantyre or any of the other similarly uninspiring and at times pretty grim towns around here. Hamilton was biggest, and contained within its streets a huge, faceless, monolithic office block that houses South Lanarkshire council. It kind of summed it up. Once the cycle path left the river, I was also consigned to cycling along busy roads until finally free of the sprawl. That didn’t really happen until after I left Lesmahagow, where I decided to stop and eat. Given what came afterwards, I feel very glad that I did. I was about a third of the way through both the ride and my time. I had to be quick.
At Lesmahagow, my cycle route was brought together with the M74 motorway, which I would track closely for the rest of the day. Here, at the motorway junction, stands the fabled Route 74 Truckstop, which has been recommended to me before. Now was the perfect time to experience it. I was expecting something a little more basic, but the restaurant interior was actually very swish and comfortable. The menu, however, was designed for the larger appetite. They were no longer serving their full breakfast range at this time (I had initially asked for the “6-wheeler”) but went for the all day brunch and was surprised to see not only a large fried breakfast with toast delivered to my table, but also a big bowl of chips! I have to say that I surprised myself with the demolition job that followed. My before and after photos are time stamped and there are seven minutes between untouched full plate and nothing left. It was the best chance I could give myself.
I left knowing that however mathematically possible this still might be, it wasn’t at all likely that I would make it. I had under four hours and almost fifty miles to go. The biggest hills still lay ahead. The traffic got lighter with every mile and I really only passed through one settlement after that, so it was lonely going. At times it felt quite bleak. The only real features on the bare hills were the many tall wind generators and they were whipping around in the strong breeze today. I tried to find what little shelter I could, sometimes cycling up the wrong side of the empty road, or abandoning the cycle path in favour of trees by the road. My route largely used the old A74, a once-busy place before the motorway took over, leaving it almost completely forgotten. Honestly, I wouldn’t bother coming back and cycling any of this ride again. It offers little in the way of enjoyment.
I seemed to do a fair amount of climbing as far as lonely Abington, but somehow, after that, a large proportion of the remaining 32 miles felt like they were downhill. For the final third of today’s ride I upped my average speed significantly and I realised around 6pm that I still had a chance. I couldn’t, could I?
Well, I have to tell you that I did. The clock on the grand tower of Lockerbie Town Hall showed exactly 7pm when I arrived and I even had time to buy a drink before the train came. I was most impressed, as well as happy that I would be in my own bed tonight, with the prospect of cycling in sunshine in the morning. Sometimes you just have to accept that you did something unexpectedly well. Now was one of those times. Well done me!
In truth, this was a day of cycling that I didn’t experience at its best, but I’m pretty sure that even if I I had, my impressions would have been similar. It was one to get behind me. I have done it now. The hard way. And I don’t ever need to do it again.
