All Points North ’23

Nine hours of sleep and the world's worst saddle sores

It was 1.14am and I could barely make out the road in front of me. I knew I was somewhere near Howden and had been approaching some kind of moveable bridge for what felt like the last 2 hours, but in reality was probably no more than 20 minutes. Time was warped and I could focus on nothing aside from the agony caused by my saddle. I abruptly sucked in another big gasp of air as more tears rolled down my face, blurring the dimly-lit tarmac ahead. I was mid-way through an ugly cry, the third of this ride, and couldn’t see how I was going to get through the next three hours. Riding out of the saddle was no longer an option; my knee had been giving me grief since Filey Brigg, and the reapplication of chamois cream wasn’t bringing with it the relief of previous hours. The pain was all-consuming. No matter how I shifted my weight or where I positioned my body, something screamed. How had I gotten to this point? Were others suffering too? Was I really going to give up with only 60km to go?

—

The sun was shining in Sheffield as I left the station and pedalled the 12 minutes towards A Different Gear, the bike shop that would double as the starting line of All Points North: my first ultra-distance cycling event. Tracker collected, bike checked, and flat white consumed, I went on the hunt to find Dan – my good friend and riding partner. We had been prepping for this event for the best part of 5 months, ever since we received the email letting us know that our application had been successful way back in January. Since then we’d dedicated countless hours to route planning, hill training, and kit testing and were now finally ready to embark on (probably) the biggest adventure of our cycling careers to date. So much had gone into getting us to the start line, the only thing left to do now was ride our bikes. That’s what everyone always likes to say when you mention long distance cycling – ‘it’s just riding a bike’ – but this wasn’t just riding a bike to me. This was the culmination of 2 years of painful self-discovery, personal growth, and convincing myself that I can do hard things. If I could do this then I could do anything, and so the stakes were high.

6pm rolled around and the courtyard was abuzz with other riders. It was hard not to look at other rigs and compare them to my own. Did I overpack? Should I have left the bivvy at home? Were Tangfastics really the optimum snack of choice? It was too late for should haves; I’d made my bed and now I needed to lie in it. Anything I would later come to regret could be used as lessons for future rides, but for now I needed to radically accept the choices I had made. Aside from bike comparisons, it was also hard not to question where you stood against other riders’ levels of fitness. This wasn’t a race, but it was definitely a race.

60 minutes and one last-minute pizza delivery order later, everything was starting to feel very real. The courtyard was now packed with 200 lycra-clad cyclists, all donning their numbered caps. This is how we’d recognise each other out on the road, and how others would recognise us through the tracking software on their screens. In less than an hour we’d all be transformed into digital dots: our names, numbers, and average speeds being broadcast to friends and family across the globe. Becoming a dot felt like an achievement of the highest order. I’d spent countless nights glued to the screen as I traced dots across Europe during the Transcontinental, zooming in on Google maps to find out which glorious bus shelter or hedge riders had chosen as their bed for the night. And now people would be doing exactly the same to me. It was a lot of pressure to choose the right hedge.

At last, 8pm arrived and we all rolled out of the courtyard and into the night. Adrenaline was high as riders quickly went their separate ways, often veering off at junctions or roundabouts and then popping up again further down the road. Who knew that there were so many ways to navigate through Sheffield city centre. Surprisingly, it didn’t take long for everyone to disperse and we were soon left to our chosen route with only a couple of other cyclists ahead of us. It was fast and it was fun. The sun was starting to set, casting an orange glow across the rooftops, and I remember grinning wildly as I held onto Dan’s wheel as he turned down a side street. The first descent. The first speed bump. The first time our tracker showed a 0km/hr moving speed as I unclipped and scampered back up the road to collect the cafe lock that had dislodged itself and bounced its way onto the pavement. We had already lost precious minutes.

The next 50km passed in a blur as the sun dipped below the horizon and headlights filled the roads. We knew we had a long night ahead of us and this was only the beginning. Thoughts quickly turned to resupply options, knowing that we’d need to stock up on water before we ventured further into uncharted territory. No one wants to be alone on exposed moorland at night with only a dirty puddle to quench their thirst. Luckily, I had recce’d this part of the route only a few weeks earlier and knew there was a Sainsbury’s up ahead that was open until 11pm. “What time is it?” I called out to Dan, who had easier access to his watch. “10.54pm!” came the answer. We had 6 minutes to practice our first speed stop. I held onto the bikes as Dan performed a flying dismount (this may or may not have happened) and disappeared into the bright lights of Sainsbury’s, returning less than 60 seconds later with a huge bottle of water and various chocolate bars that were thrown in my general direction. A quick bottle top-up and we were back on the road, pedalling our way towards check point one: Widdop Moor.

—

We reached Widdop Moor an hour ahead of (my loosely planned) schedule, arriving alongside a handful of other riders. Things were still feeling pretty frantic and every stopped minute seemed to count. A quick pause to answer the question on the brevet card – something about dogs on leads – and we were immediately back on the bikes, loading our routes towards check point two. It was pitch black by this point and we had long since left the safety of earlier towns and villages. The temperature had also dropped significantly and my bib shorts weren’t quite cutting it. I made a mental note to do a quick layering adjustment at the next checkpoint – stopping for stopping’s sake felt truly blasphemous at this stage. The next 40km passed with relative ease (although I’m sure there were grisly memories that I have since repressed) and we pulled into Selside in the early hours of Saturday morning. We’d covered about 140km and were feeling strong. Unfortunately the same couldn’t be said for our bladders.

I leaned my bike up against the wall as I rummaged around in my saddle bag for my merino leg warmers and glove liners. Extremities covered, I unwrapped one of my prized food items: a bombay potato pasty. The air was brisk and I knew I was procrastinating. The truth was I needed the toilet but the thought of faffing around with my bibs in the dark and exposing my bare bum to the elements was less than appealing. The risk of weeing on my own shoes made it even less so.

But I can do hard things, and so wild wee I did.

As I started repacking my bike and making small talk with another rider it very quickly started to dawn on me that, despite our best efforts, we probably weren’t going to be in the running for any kind of top 10 placement. We had been pedalling pretty consistently for the last 140km with only a quick stop for water and another quick stop at the previous check point. It wasn’t a leisurely cycle by any means and I was relatively happy with our pace. Yet this rider was telling us stories of his run in with a McDonalds’ drive-through worker who refused to serve him because he wasn’t in a motorised vehicle. After much pleading and begging, he was finally allowed to order and binged his way through multiple burgers and several sides of fries. On the outside I let out a little whoop of celebration for him. On the inside all I could think about was that he’d somehow managed to enjoy a sit down meal (of multiple courses!) and had still reached the second check point within minutes of us. How was that physically possible? Were we way out of our depth here? Who were these superhuman cyclists we were competing against?

Feelings of anxiety and extreme self-doubt were quickly quashed with the arrival of another rider who openly exclaimed that “that was the hardest 40 miles I’ve ever ridden”. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that we were about to enter the Lakes and things would likely get a whole lot worse.

—

Things did get worse. A lot worse. The next 122km were some of the hardest I’ve ever ridden, both physically and mentally. Having cycled through the night on many occasions I’ve come to learn that you always feel lowest right before dawn; your eyes feel heavy and all you want to do is surrender to the lull of sleep, even if only for a moment. It feels as though nothing in the universe could possibly revive you from this desperate need for slumber. That is, until the sun starts to show its face and the promise of a new day begins. It happens quickly and suddenly and in an instant all tiredness is forgotten; you are awake and you are on a mission. This ride was no different. Inhaling a handful of chocolate-coated coffee beans (thanks Ryan!) I willed my legs to keep moving. Thankfully, most of the earlier climbs were behind us and we were now enjoying an easy descent towards Ingleton.

Something I always find amusing about cycling big distances is how the smallest thing can dramatically impact your mood. A 50m stretch of smooth road. A turn into an unexpected tailwind. The intro of a 90’s banger filling your headphones. These small spikes of joy interrupt an otherwise monotonous drag of tarmac and tug you back into the present moment where you catch yourself grinning from ear to ear willing it to never end.

This is how I found myself as we continued to descend through rolling valleys of green, flirting with the border of the Lake District and the suffering we knew lie within. The sun announced its imminent rising and everything was tinted in different hues of blue. There was just enough light to glimpse the outline of baby lambs grazing by the side of the road. I felt so much joy in that moment. I wasn’t 160km into a gruelling 1,000km race, I was on a weekend cycle with fresh legs and the promise of beautiful adventure.

Unfortunately those feelings never last.

—

Stabby. That’s the only way I can describe the climbs of the Lake District. They were short, sharp, and relentless. And some of them didn’t even abide by the ‘short’ rule. By now the sun was up and our heavy breathing was accompanied by a growing need to strip off all the layers we’d added only a few hours previously. Garmin announced yet another upcoming climb and a quick glance down confirmed what I already knew was coming – the first 20% gradient. I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not a particularly strong climber, so the thought of having to conquer some of the hardest gradients in the UK with a fully loaded bike sent my anxiety through the roof. I’d convinced myself that it was ok to walk; in fact, it might be more efficient than killing myself and my legs when I still had so much further to go. But I also knew that this view was lightly held and in reality I was going to give those climbs everything I had. If I can do this I can do anything.

The climb over Cartmel Fell was 1km long and immediately kicked up to 20%, draining the legs for the (marginally) shallower gradients later on. After a few expletives I settled into a rhythm, dropping weight into each of my legs one at a time. It took all of 3 pedal strokes to run out of gears and I quickly found myself grinding up the snaking road, not daring to look anywhere further than the 2 metres directly ahead of me. “Just get through the next 20 seconds” I repeated like some kind of mantra whilst simultaneously cursing myself for flippantly offering exactly the same advice during my HIIT classes when people struggled through the Tabata finishers.

With my legs starting to spin more freely, I looked up to see Dan initiating the routine of de-layering as fast as humanly possible. I joined him shortly thereafter, muttering a few more expletives for good measure. Another coffee bean and on we went.

During our route planning we’d made the conscious choice to avoid A roads as much as possible, favouring smaller, more scenic alternatives. We convinced ourselves that A roads would lead to inevitable misery and despair, whereas rural lanes would distract us from our suffering by offering idyllic views and injections of fresh country air. It’s probably worth pointing out that Dan and I both live in London where this reality is undeniably true: A roads are the devil. However we quickly learned that things are a little different up North and it is in fact the winding, country lanes that are the root of all evil. I’m sure that if we’d ignored our own advice we would have enjoyed a much flatter route into checkpoint three. Alas.

The next 70km were relentless. We practically crawled our way over every lump and bump (of which there were many) and freewheeled down every descent (of which there were few), occasionally exchanging grumbles about how awful everything was. It was also at this point that Dan snapped his chain. I can’t pretend that I wasn’t secretly thrilled that this meant we’d get to stop for a breather and a snack. Out came the quick links (and the Snickers) as two other riders passed us by with a gentle nod of the head. The rules of self-supported cycling events such as this state that you’re unable to offer help to fellow competitors without risking a DQ for you both. This means that things like mechanicals are your problem and yours alone. Thankfully we were able to fit the new links and were back on the road in 10 minutes flat – just enough time to forget what a horrible time we were having.

The climbs out of Ulpha and over Birker Fell were no less punishing, except now we were only 20km away from the next checkpoint. It felt excitingly close, but the road towards Wasdale Head was undulating – my new least-favourite terrain – and we’d dropped the ball on our fuelling strategy meaning that what should have taken 45 minutes took well over 90. By the time we rolled (crawled) into the checkpoint, we were truly broken. Desperate for food and water we ransacked the local tourist shop for every crumb of sugar we could find: a confused haul of crisps, fizzy drinks, Jaffa cakes, and Harribo sprawled across the wooden benches outside. I’ve never eaten so much in a single sitting and was slightly repulsed at how any form of social integrity was instantly abandoned in favour of ramming stacks of Jaffa cakes directly into my mouth.

Depleted carb levels satisfied, I made the call to change my bibs. We were 260km in and saddle sores were something that filled me with dread. I’d survived a handful of 300km rides in the past and gotten away with some mild chafing, but I knew that 50 hours of riding was a completely different beast and apathy had no place here. I’d made a pact with myself to alternate between my two pairs of bibs every 300km and reapply a charitable amount of chamois cream at every available opportunity. This was one of those opportunities and I shuffled off to find a public toilet.

Sometimes you luck out with public toilets and sometimes you don’t. This was one of the latter situations which became evident as soon as I pushed open the door and inhaled a deep breath of what can only be described as piss air. I retched a little as I maneuvered my feet onto the only dry patch of floor, scanning the tiny shack for a non-contaminated place to deposit my things. The cobwebbed window ledge would have to do.

Bibs round my ankles and mid-chamois application, a bang on the door. “Is anyone in there?” came a voice from outside with an aggressive try of the handle. “Uhhh, yes!” I scrambled to pull up my shorts. This was not a time to be rushed; I still needed to wash my dirty bibs, clean my teeth, administer a second layer of Bepanthen, and have an existential breakdown. The handle rattled again. I stayed silent. All too often I berate myself for bending to accommodate the needs of others whilst sacrificing my own. But right now, I needed to put my own needs first. The person on the other side of the door could wait.

I emerged sheepishly 7 minutes later avoiding eye-contact with the gentleman standing patiently outside and waddled back towards where I’d left Dan with his family-size bag of Harribo. It looked as though I wasn’t the only one listening to my needs; Dan was now horizontal on the bench, head firmly planted on a cushion, and deep into his first power nap. I did what any supportive friend would do at this point and snapped a quick picture on my phone, uploading it to Instagram. This was the reality of ultra-distance cycling and the world needed to know.

—

Re-fuelled and re-bibbed we draped ourselves back over our saddles and started pedalling. There was 90km between us and the next checkpoint and this was the section I was dreading the most. Route planning presented us with three main options: detour through Keswick adding 20km to our route but avoiding the double whammy of Hardknott and Wrynose Pass, hike-a-bike towards Seathwaite via a gravel-laden bridleway, or tackle Hardknott directly and accept our fate. Somehow I allowed Dan to convince me to face my fears and give Hardknott a crack. “We can always get off and push” he’d said, as though there was ever another option.

We’d been riding for no more than 20 minutes when we slid to a halt. There was a cafe. Serving hot food. And coffee. Despite having just eaten our bodyweight in Jaffa cakes we were determined not to let ourselves sink back into the calorie-deficit caverns we’d found ourselves in previously and decided that another round of more substantial food couldn’t be a bad thing.

A couple of avocado and halloumi breakfast baps and a shot of espresso later and we were flying. Hardknott, here we come.

—

20km later and the sign for Hardknott warned of ominous 30% gradients and narrow, single-track roads ahead. This was it, the point of no return. The climb that I’d watched Katie Kookaburra struggle through on YouTube was soon to become my reality. We cautiously approached the cattle grid which signifies the start of the climb and were promptly met with a 20% kick up which refused to relent for a good few hundred metres. I was out of the saddle immediately, wheezing my way through every downstroke. I made the first corner, and then the second, and then my lungs screamed and my legs trembled and my foot hit the floor with the deafening thud of disappointment. Inhaling deeply, I swung my leg over the saddle and started to push. As if there was ever another option.

“I believe in you!” I called to Dan who was about a hundred metres in front, still battling with Hardknott’s insanely steep switchbacks. “I believe in you too!” he shouted back, unaware that I had already thrown in the towel.

We regrouped at the top, having scooped up another rider on the way. “The descent is almost as bad as the climb up” he warned. “Stay on the brakes and don’t let yourself pick up speed”. I knew my granny descending skills would come in handy one day. “No chance of that!” I smirked as I wound my fists tightly around the brake levers.

With Hardknott conquered it was now time to enter combat with his little brother, Wrynose. Far from an easy fight, Wrynose still topped out at a grisly 23% and sapped what little power you had left in your legs after a full morning of climbing. Although this time I was determined not to be defeated and performed what could only be described as a temper tantrum on my pedals, stamping them into the ground as though my life depended on it. Unexpectedly it worked, and I emerged both victorious and woefully out of breath.

What I wasn’t prepared for was the sudden and unwelcome appearance of The Struggle, another 4km climb with eye-watering gradients, less than 10km later. It was at this point I sincerely questioned our life choices and wondered whether we’d accidentally loaded a homage to the top 100 climbs instead of our undemanding route to Long Meg. “This is insane” I repeated over and over as the road continued to rise. How I was keeping the bike moving was a mystery. I wasn’t a strong climber, I kept telling myself. Especially not with a loaded bike. And yet here I was, grinding my way to the top of yet another assassin of an ascent.

I changed the way I saw myself after that. No more self-deprecating thoughts or doubting my place on this ride. I belonged here and I could do this.

—

It was early evening by the time we reached Long Meg and we’d been riding for close to 24 hours. We hadn’t covered as much distance as we’d have liked (a measly 360km) but knew our bodies would start to fail us if we didn’t start thinking about sleep soon. It was decided: we’d ride another 30km towards our next checkpoint, find ourselves some hot food, and then hunt down our first bivvy spot.

Brampton was as good a town as any to inhale a chippy dinner on the side of the road and stock up on portable breakfast items for the following morning. The sun was now losing its warmth and our pace slowed significantly. Our bodies knew that sleep was on the horizon and were starting their shutdown procedures. It wouldn’t be long before a muddy verge looked like an appealing place to rest our heads.

I have a confession to make. I had never slept in a bivvy before. Nor had I ever had to find a suitable place to sleep in one out in the open. It turns out that this is a harder task than anticipated, especially as the light fades and desperation starts to set in. A child’s playground? Too exposed. That canopy of trees? Too boggy. This creepy church cemetery at the end of a dark, winding lane? Perfect.

And so we laid out our bivvies under the protection of a conifer tree, surrounded by gravestones, and swiftly closed our eyes.

—

The ground around my head vibrated violently as my phone roused me back into consciousness. It was 3am and I could hear Dan shivering through the bivvy wall. “It’s insanely cold out here” his teeth chattered as he started to pack up camp. I struggled with the zip, briefly wondering how long it would take to suffocate, before popping my head out into the brisk morning air. Dan was right, it was freezing. Prising myself from my sleeping bag was a challenge, but I was surprisingly pleased with how warm it had kept me throughout the night. As someone who is notorious for always being cold this was one of my biggest fears. I’d packed and repacked more times than I’d care to admit, adding and removing layers as I catastrophised every possible scenario. Eventually I made peace with my decision to sacrifice a lighter pack in favour of warmth, and, whilst I had expected the nights to be where I needed those extra layers the most, it was in fact the mornings.

Bivvying, as it turns out, was rather fun. I’d thoroughly enjoyed my first night in a glorified body bag and felt surprisingly well-rested. What I didn’t enjoy was how much faffing was involved in re-packing my bike in the dark. I started to question whether there were time gains to be made here after all and whether it might have been quicker to pop into a hotel for the night. Regardless, this was all part of the adventure and I had no regrets.

Whilst Dan strapped up his Tailfin, I enjoyed a breakfast of champions whilst sitting crossed-legged on the cemetery floor: two pots of ambrosia rice pudding (eaten with a disposable fork) and a protein shake. It may sound odd, but this moment right here was exactly as I had pictured it and I was having the time of my life. It may have been all the summers I spent camping as a Girl Guide, or the hard lessons of countless Duke of Edinburgh expeditions, but this is the stuff I lived for. Roughing it, as my parents would say. If this is what ultras were about then sign me up.

—

It took us the best part of an hour to get moving again but the timing worked out perfectly; the sky started to brighten around 4am which meant we didn’t need to waste precious battery life using our front lights on high beam. This was going to be our longest continuous stretch so far, with 140km until the next checkpoint. We’d made the bold decision to detour into Scotland, favouring the longer (but flatter) A7 to get us to Norham Castle instead of risking yet more soul-sapping undulating terrain. It was the right choice; the A7 was eerily quiet and the tarmac was pristine.

When we passed the ‘Welcome to Scotland’ sign my stomach did a little flip, appreciating for the first time just how far we had travelled under nothing but our own steam. I made a point to check in with my body and whispered a handful of kind words about how proud I was of what it was getting us through. This was another high point. Another emotional snapshot that will be forever preserved within the mind and in the words on this page.

But feelings are fleeting: another cruel teaching of ultras.

The sun pierced the horizon and my eyes started to sag. The dreaded dawn fatigue. I tried my best to keep my focus on the road ahead, but the smoothness of the tarmac and the ease of pedalling on the flat didn’t do much to keep me awake. I felt my pace slow and my eyelids drop. A millisecond at first. Then two. And three. Until I’d been riding blind for longer than I care to admit. It was time to stop.

“Power nap?” Dan asked. I nodded sheepishly and we pulled over onto the grass verge at the side of the road. Grabbing my down jacket from my saddle bag, I took off my helmet and curled up on the ground, knees tucked loosely into my chest. I must have slipped unconscious almost immediately because the next thing I remember was jolting awake with a sharp inhale. Misty eyed, I looked around. Dan was pacing. “How long was I asleep?” I asked. He looked at his watch “12 minutes”.

12 minutes was all I needed. I was a new woman. I was revitalised. And most importantly, I was awake.

—

Another 50km down the road and we passed a rider coming from the opposite direction. We nodded in mutual acknowledgement. “He’s still got the Lakes to come” I said out loud to no one in particular, shuddering at the thought of having to tackle those climbs with 600km already in the legs. We’d made the right call on our clockwise route.

With yesterday’s fuelling failures still front of mind, we made the decision to target Hawick for a much needed breakfast stop and a quick google search revealed a Wetherspoons that opened at 8am. Dan and I locked eyes and squealed like teenage girls. The ultra gods were on our side.

Wheeling our bikes into that Wetherspoons felt like a huge weight had been lifted. It was the first time I’d sat on a chair (instead of the floor or a curb or a gravestone) in over 20 hours and it felt good to know that we were about to get a solid injection of calories – not to mention access to unlimited coffee refills. Not only this, but we’d also conveniently located ourselves next to a plug (it’s the small wins) and were able to charge our dying devices en masse.

The large vegetarian breakfast (1,357 calories) slipped down a treat, but with three servings of everything – three sausages, three hashbrowns, definitely more than three baked beans – there came a point where my stomach rebelled. “Please, no more”. And so I took a paper napkin and wrapped a few greasy goodies for later.

Spirits were high as we rejoined our route out of Hawick and it wasn’t long until we hit Norham Castle, our fifth check point. Here, we brushed shoulders with a spattering of other riders who were on their way to the Lakes (R.I.P) and exchanged a few niceties. I surprised myself when I answered “pretty good!’ to a question about how we were feeling. Was I feeling pretty good? I wasn’t sure.

We made a conscious effort to consume a few more calories before answering the question on our brevet and turning our wheels in the direction of Winters Gibbet, another 80km away.

—

I don’t remember much of the first 60km (although Google street view tells me it was very scenic and green), but what I do remember was my energy levels starting to wane as we entered Northumberland National Park and its tormentingly lumpy terrain. I was feeling so good, and then I was feeling so very, very bad. It was as though the last calorie of that morning’s fry up had been put to work and I was now running on empty. There were no reserves left in the tank for my legs to draw from. Every pedal stroke sent me deeper and deeper into a metaphorical hole: my breathing became laboured and my head heavy. I tried to pop a few emergency Tangfastics but it was too late. My body was running on fumes and everything became a colossal struggle. Dan pushed further and further ahead as I dropped behind, willing my muscles to keep turning the pedals, knowing we were within touching distance of the checkpoint.

Everything became too much and tears soon began to well in my eyes. My vision became blurry. I was at rock bottom. Why was I finding this so incredibly hard? How was I going to get through another 450km?

It felt like forever, but I finally crested the last climb and collapsed onto a large rock. I think Dan asked me something but I was too inside my own head to acknowledge what was going on outside. “You need to eat” is all I remember being said, over and over again.

I pulled out the chocolate milkshake that I’d been saving and guzzled the entire thing in 20 seconds flat. Then I unwrapped a sandwich and starting chewing on the dry crust. This was not enjoyable. I was not having a good time.

“You need to eat more” it came again. “I physically can’t!” I swallowed, trying to keep a mouthful of soggy bread down. “Have a Twix”. I wanted to cry.

—

We pushed on for another couple of hours, but I never fully escaped the hole that I worried was now my permanent state of being. It was 7.30pm on Sunday and as much as it sent me into a cold sweat to think about, I knew we needed more food. My bibs were also starting to give me grief and I was eager for another palmful of chamois cream to help ease the discomfort. We pulled into a pub just south of Prestwick, chosen solely due to the fact it was there, and commenced the tedious routine of re-layering, re-charging, and re-fuelling.

It was obvious that things had taken a turn and neither of us were in particularly good spirits. A hot meal would probably go a long way to help lift our moods, but eating was the last thing we wanted to be doing at that moment. We ordered tersely and I made my way through the maze of low-ceilinged rooms to find the bathroom.

Only hours before we had been cruising across England’s border, a delirious grin plastered across my face. How had things gotten so bad so quickly? I looked in the bathroom mirror, making timid eye-contact with myself, and questioned my ability to carry on.

Our food arrived not long after and we both silently picked at our plates. There was a palpable weight hanging over us. Dan was the first to address it. “Do you think we can ride 400km in 24 hours?” That was how much further we had to ride and how much longer we had to do it in.

I’d ridden London Wales London a few weeks earlier – a similar distance – in a similar time, but right now it felt impossible. We were both hurting; our bodies broken by the huge distance we’d already covered coupled with the extreme sleep deprivation. “I don’t know” I answered, dispirited. And then came the word that I was most afraid of hearing. “Scratch?”

I can’t tell you why, but the very mention of scratching (dropping out of the race) rapidly lit a fire inside of me and right then and there I made the choice to painfully swallow my current discomfort alongside my last forkfuls of dinner. I was going to finish this race.

—

We’d agreed to press on and try to reach the next checkpoint, Dales Bike Centre, to get some sleep before making a decision. Never scratch at night: the number one rule of ultras. It’s remarkable how much better things feel in the morning.

20km later and it was clear that things weren’t improving. My spirits had lifted somewhat, or a more likely story: I was forcing optimism as the despair continued to bubble away just below the surface. We stopped again just south of Sunniside to use a hotel toilet. It was 10pm and light was quickly fading. It would soon be dark and we would once again be alone with our self-doubt with only the moon and 90km of tarmac for company.

Standing in the warmth of the hotel lobby it quickly became clear that neither of us were in a rush to get back on our bikes and press on into the night. Then came that word again. “I think I’m going to scratch”. Dan’s mind had been made up. Accepting that there was no chance of us making it back to Sheffield within the 72 hour time limit, and knowing that he had to be back at work on Wednesday – not to mention the fact he had another ultra coming up in a few weeks’ time – Dan decided it wasn’t worth putting his already-broken body through another 20+ hours in the saddle. I respected his reasoning and didn’t try to push. I needed to save every last fragment of energy to get me through what I now knew would be another 400km of riding, alone.

The compromise was that we would both spend the night in the hotel whose lobby we had been occupying for the past half an hour, and then go our separate ways in the morning. It was a giant relief to have the comforts of a proper bed, bathroom, and plug to recharge all my devices before setting off for another full day (and night) on the bike.

—

My alarm went off at 4am and I lay there still in the darkness, seriously contemplating hitting snooze. My eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom as my conscious mind struggled to remember where we were and what we were doing. A glance over to the chair where I had laid out my cycling kit the night before hastily brought me back to reality. I gathered my things as quietly as possible and retreated to the light of the bathroom to get changed (and scoff a blueberry muffin), anxious not to wake Dan from his restful slumber.

“You sure you’re not coming?” I whispered as I turned towards the door. A mumbled response which sounded like a ‘hell no’ came back through the darkness.

Wheeling my bike towards the hotel reception, I could already see that it was getting light outside. This was it. The final push. The last slog. The road to victory. I walked towards the automatic doors, anticipating a rush of cold air against my skin, but nothing happened. The doors didn’t open. “Fantastic” I said a little too loudly, hoping my words would carry to a dozing receptionist somewhere nearby. Silence. This was not the kind of delay I had factored into the day’s schedule.

I left my bike against the front desk and started exploring the open rooms. There was no one around. Calling the hotel reception resulted only in an apologetic voicemail. Surely there must be someone here to let me out? This was a disaster.

After 10 minutes of wandering around aimlessly, I eventually found someone in the back of the hotel kitchen who claimed to have the keys. Low and behold, the doors were shortly opened and I was back on two wheels.

—

It was astonishing, some would say miraculous, how much better I felt having had a solid 5 hours of sleep. The anguish of the night before was all but a distant memory as I pedalled into the Yorkshire Dales and onwards towards checkpoint seven.

I arrived at the Dales Bike Centre at 9.30am on Monday morning. Most of the other riders were on the home stretch back towards Sheffield, but I was sitting on a bench in the sunshine enjoying a jacket potato with beans and cheese and two flat whites. I was happy again. The sun was shining and I loved riding my bike.

Still ever afraid of being dragged back into to the hole I’d only just crawled out from within, I ordered a panini to go and stuffed it into my musette. It felt comforting to know I had a reserve of carb-loaded calories resting on my back.

Brevet card stamped, it was onto Easingwold and checkpoint eight. A quick review of the route and I almost burst into tears. It was 76km and pancake flat.

—

I cranked up the music in my headphones (90s classics, always) and positioned myself on the drops as I pumped my legs to the beat. Time passed quickly and I soon arrived in Easingwold. I was on a roll and was desperate not to lose any momentum so took temporary refuge outside a roadside pub to inhale my (now soggy) panini and locate the answer to the question on the brevet card. I had wanted to use this stop to re-fill my bottles, use the toilet, and smother more chamois cream over my bibs, but the square was busy and there was no obvious safe space to leave my bike (the downside of riding solo). The busyness of the town was overwhelming and I became stressed quickly. Having had only the company of myself – and Dan – for the best part of three days meant that this kind of overstimulation was paralysing. I felt a very primal need to escape. And so, water bottles empty and chamois dry, I rode on.

Helmsley was only 20km away and I was sure I’d be able to find somewhere quiet to stop en route. That somewhere soon arrived in the form of a cafe called Hearts of Ampleforth.

Propping my bike outside, I was told that they had stopped serving food for the day (what time was it?) but that they still had a selection of cakes and ice cream. Perfect. Give me all the sugar. One cake, one ice cream, and one two litre bottle of cloudy apple juice found their way to the table as I scuttled off to find the bathroom.

Things were not looking good. I’d long since given up swapping between my bib shorts as it was wasting far too much time, and now I was needing to reapply chamois cream at much more frequent intervals to keep myself in the saddle. “Pain is temporary” I would repeat to myself, genuinely unsure of whether I was doing any permanent damage down below.

I topped up my water bottles with the newly acquired apple juice (which now brought the contents to 1/3 cloudy apple, 1/3 Lucozade sport, and 1/3 slush puppie) and hopped back on the bike, ready to conquer the remaining 5km to Helmsley.

—

Helmsley was home to another swarming town square so I made my visit brief. My frenzied approach and loaded bike quickly drew the attention of two middle-aged tourers who had all the questions. How old are you? 32. What are you doing? Cycling 1,000km around the North of England. How many days are you doing that in? 3. Do you want some nuts? No, thank you. And I was back on the road.

—

It all started to feel very real at this moment. I was on my way to the final checkpoint, Filey Brigg, and from there it was only one last push back to Sheffield where I could stop pedalling indefinitely. I knew that I wasn’t going to finish within the 72 hours, but I didn’t care. I was going to finish. That was all that mattered. After months of talking myself round in circles about whether or not I belonged here, amongst this inspiring clique of ultra-athletes, I finally felt that I did.

Feelings are fleeting.

The road to Filey Brigg made me angry. We’d plotted two potential routes: one along an A road which was shorter but with slightly more elevation, and one that took the B road alternative that was longer and slightly flatter. It wasn’t an obvious choice, but based on our previous luck with A roads I opted for the former. That was a mistake.

It was nearly 5pm on a bank holiday Monday and so I shared the road with what I can only assume was 90% of the east coast’s traffic. If that wasn’t bad enough, I was also riding directly into an unforgiving headwind. The recent sugar injection was wearing off and cold, hard rage was the emotion laying-in-wait underneath. I was furious at everything: the road surface, the wind, the car pollution, the pathetic incline that felt like an alp ascent. Shouting expletives at unsuspecting potholes was a new kind of low.

I tried to channel my fury into my riding and once again lowered myself onto the drops, eyes fixed forwards like a predator ready to strike.

That lasted a grand total of 7 seconds before a searing pain shot up through my right knee. I winced and immediately dropped power. I’d felt this kind of pain once before whilst on a ride from London to Lands End which resulted in me single-leg pedalling for 100km. I still had 180km to go.

Tentatively, I applied pressure through my right pedal. It twinged again. The anger was now laced with despair. This couldn’t be happening. And yet it very much was.

By this point, I had started to develop ulcerations on my tongue from gorging on nothing but processed food for the past few days and it was becoming difficult to eat. I reached for a messy handful of Tangtastics and pressed them into my mouth. My eyes welled as soon as the sourness made contact with the ulcers. I can’t explain why, but in that moment I wanted to feel the pain. I welcomed all of it.

Navigating through Filey and towards the checkpoint was tiring; the coastal town was occupied by revellers soaking up the last of the bank holiday sun, spilling out of pubs and restaurants and onto the streets outside. Cobbled sections of road made sure my smile remained buried.

What should have felt like relief and triumph to reach that final checkpoint in reality felt like nothing. I was numb. I was ready for this to be over.

—

It was 8pm and I had 160km to cover to get back to Sheffield. Other riders were now enjoying their well-deserved finishers’ meal, probably sharing beers and stories from the road. They would be smiling and laughing, knowing that their suffering was over and they would be getting a respectable amount of sleep that night.

I sighed loudly and hauled my broken body back onto the saddle. I needed to find food and provisions before starting the long slog home.

Back into Filey I tried a couple of pubs but ‘no food on Mondays’ seemed to be a common retort. I was very aware that as soon as I left the coastal town my options for sustenance would become severely limited, and so my bar for what was considered acceptable cuisine was lowered significantly. The late night kebab shop with its neon signage ticked the new boxes of criteria: is open and has food.

One large vegetable pizza with a side of coke on order, I started prepping my bike for the night miles ahead. My handlebar roll had been rubbing on my front tyre for the last couple of hours and, whilst I had very little energy to direct towards this problem, I knew that it could turn catastrophic if ignored any longer. In order to solve it I needed to repack the bag, manipulating my sleeping bag and bivvy to remove any excess bulk. Mentally, this felt like a gargantuan task and there were several more sighs that escaped my mouth before a sharp inhale and the acceptance that I needed to ‘just suck it up’.

There I was, bivvy and sleeping bag sprawled across the pavement, wires from charging devices draped over the wooden picnic bench that I had staked as my base. It would have been quite a scene for any passerby, but I continued to exist in my own reality of solitude so much so that the concept of social judgment was beyond comprehension.

I had often found this to be the case on long rides in the past and always regarded it a curious phenomenon. The way that the mind seems to shut off all channels of thought that could distract from our ability to survive and persevere. This often included things such as the ability to interpret social cues, question what people think of us, and filter our words and actions before they enter the world. In this diminished state I was focussed only on what I needed to do in order to endure.

—

Shadows stretched across the tarmac as the sun threatened to retire. A frantic sweep through the aisles of a local co-op meant that my musette was now filled with the ammunition to get me to the finish. I had no plans to sleep so I grabbed a can of Red Bull should things get dire.

There was only one climb I needed to conquer and then it was supposed to be smooth sailing all the way to Doncaster, Rotherham, and finally, Sheffield. This part of the route was absolutely stunning; I was away from main roads and cornfields stretched for miles on either side, the amber hues of the setting sun lighting my path ahead. I wish I could have been more present to enjoy that moment because, looking back, it was nothing short of magic.

Unfortunately the only thing on my mind instead was the urgent need to find a toilet. With Filey behind me I knew that another wild wee was definitely on the cards. For some reason I found this incredibly stressful; I was surrounded by fields with no obvious place to pull over that wouldn’t leave me completely exposed. However, as always tends to be the case, as time went on my criteria for a worthy wild wee location reduced significantly and I stopped as soon as the first hedge came into view.

I used this time off the bike to pull on some extra layers, stuff half a malt-loaf into my snack pouch, and douse myself in what little remained of my supply of Bepanthen. It was go time.

—

Night came quickly and there was an ever growing urgency in my need to finish. I was tired, my knee was screaming with every pedal rotation, and the pain through my saddle was quickly becoming unbearable. With nothing but darkness for company I couldn’t even distract myself with the passing scenery. I was trapped with my torment.

At least it felt like a fitting end; a physical representation of how your mind battles through dark places and is forced to face the discomfort. I always say that this is where the growth happens. When you strip back all of the layers and finally come face to face with your raw, unprocessed self. There’s often a decision that’s made here. You can hit the panic button and make it all go away, or you can keep staring into the depths, challenging them to try and break you, pushing further to see what, if anything, is on the other side. That night I chose the latter.

—

I cannot tell you how I made it through those final 60km to Sheffield, mainly because I don’t know myself. What I do know is that I arrived at 4.22am with my down jacket wrapped around my saddle, flakes from a mac and cheese pasty dusted around my mouth, and the delirium of having slept a grand total of 9 hours over the best part of 4 days.

This was the moment I had been dreaming about for months, and yet when it finally arrived there was no cheering crowd, no finisher’s medal, and no ceremonious recognition of what I had just achieved. There was only the rubble of the girl who started riding her bike 80 hours earlier, and all the possibilities of who she now might re-construct herself to be.

—

All Points North is an ultra-distance cycling event where riders must plot their own routes between 10 checkpoints spread across the rugged and exposed countryside of the North of England. Of the 130 riders who left Sheffield, 85 made it back to the finish line in one piece.

Final stats:

• Total distance: 1,053km

• Total elevation: 12,690m

• Total moving time: 52 hours

• Total elapsed time: 80 hours

—

Photo credit: Chris Skelhorn