Glasgow Calling: The Route to Net Zero

 Climbing towards the M62 I ventured out on the long road to COP26. 200 miles to my northwest thousands of activists, negotiators and concerned citizens were already pushing for the changes that would fingers crossed, reduce global average temperature during our lifetime.  Failure would amount to a tacit suicide pact for humanity, the ultimate selfish act.

 My immediate concern however was the next 30 Pennine miles; brutally hilly, and packed with 25% climbs and steep descents to test my individual resolve to this cause. Mile by twisted mile though the ferocity of the lanes abated, and the valleys opened out as the weather closed in.

 

  

I met Pete (@adventurepedlars) riding a £30 mountain bike that he would donate once he reached Glasgow. We talked for miles before I left him to his own thoughts near Leyburn. Only a careless crash resulting in a broken finger and bruised ego could mar the day. Darkness fell over Teesdale as I crept up the long climb to the watershed. I had the misty moors to myself as the road tipped downhill towards Alston, only the occasional pickup truck, sheep and owl to interrupt the rhythmic whirring of cranks . 

 

 

Leaving Alston YHA the next morning  the lanes alongside the South Tyne were lit up by a riot of autumnal hues; sycamore, maple, hawthorn and beech ablaze before their winter hibernation. West of Haltwhistle it was difficult not to be be impressed by the Roman legacy of Hadrians Wall. Yes, 2000 years is however less than a second on the geological clock and we would do well to remember all the civilisations and species that have come and gone in the last 100,000 years when basking in the light of our own achievement. Civilisations come and go through folly or circumstance, species become extinct (or in the case of Homo Sapiens extinquish themselves), yet we continue to ignore the lessons of history and science in the pursuit of blinkered self interest and mutual hubris. The quiet moorland roads of the Borders were the perfect backdrop for reflection, none of the  riders dispersed along our  route knew what COP26 would bring but we were united in the hope that positive change would result.

 

A crisp and bright Thursday morning dawned in Moffat, clear blue skies to accompany our small group into Glasgow. The day was filled with stories and ideas for the future. The group contained Miles and Christian who rode a borrowed bike with flat pedals, he seemed to enjoy leaving everyone behind on the climbs despite the obvious handicap of his equipment.  We even recce’d a new trail through the Clyde windfarm which dropped us onto route 74 south of Abington. By mid afternoon we were rolling into Glasgow Green to be greeted by the rickshaw riders on London Road, we had arrived!

Later that evening riders descended on the Drygate Brewery tap to compare route notes and swap tales of the road, hopes for the COP were discussed, we were hopeful. We’d climbed the hills and put in the miles, over to the negotiators to do their bit.

Well they didn’t/couldn’t/wouldn’t.

We completed our challenge but behind the barricades and security cordons our leaders did not complete theirs. The can was kicked down the road, the 25% climb ignored in favour of the easy gradient.

What next?

It’s over to us. We’re not impotent. We have the luxury of living in a western democracy and flawed as it may be it’s a lot less flawed than the systems under which many of the planet’s citizens are subjugated. 

Write to your MP. Write again. And again. Look at your pension and any other investments you might be lucky enough to have and take back your money from companies that do not reflect your values. Move it to companies that do. Look at everything you buy, do you need it? Is your money going to good people who respect you and our planet? If not, look elesewhere for the things that perpetuate and punctuate your brief stay on earth. In the western world this is where your power resides. Bit by bit  the corporates are realising that we want change and there is no stronger message that withdrawing your dollar. In time the multi-nationals will be forced to lead the goverments on this. After all, when companies like Shell have an output equal to a european country your money may have more impact than your vote. 

  

TransEngland21

Rabbits dart left to right, right to left; occasionally they just stare, petrified in the glare of my headlight. To my right a pink moon has risen above an archipelago of clouds in the midnight blue sky. The moon looks oval but that seems implausible, it’s been a long night.

The Racing Collective’s TransEngland Trial is normally a season opener taking place in early April . Unpredictable weather, an 11pm start and short days add to the challenge of threading an efficient route between Morecambe, Dunsop Bridge, Cam Fell, Tan Hill, Bransdale and Robin Hood’s Bay. The planning requires compromise; go full roadie and add miles or more direct with bigger tyres. In truth most riders opt for the middle way, gravel bikes with aero bars made up the majority of bikes lent against the white pier head railings in Morecambe.  In previous years I’d always opted for the a gravel bike and a direct route but this year I brought 25mm tyres and a road bike, an old CAAD10 upgraded to Di2 and aero wheels. I was interested to see whether I could compensate for the extra miles with a faster rolling rig. 

  

COVID19 precautions required The Racing Collective to replan the usual 11pm mass start in favour of an open start window running from 8pm - 11pm. A daylight start for the TransEngland was a rare privilege that I wasn’t going to miss out on. I was there at Morecambe Pier head for 7.59 to join a small socially distanced group trading route strategies and taking pre-ride selfies against the spectacular Lakeland backdrop across the estuary.  

Nobody wanted to be the first rider rolling but eventually riders drifted off down the pier past the diners in the Midland Hotel. The greenway to Lancaster was as characterful as always; broken glass to keep you on your toes, weed smoke to calm them again. I was looking forward to the lanes of the Trough of Bowland.

Pssst - pssst - psssst - PSSSTTT! I stopped at the top of the Quernmore climb to plug a hole in my rear tyre. A tubeless plug seemed to do the trick and I was soon chasing down the riders that had passed me. As the flashing red lights became brighter the gradient increased but I was soon over the top and dropping down the fast twisty descent towards CP1 in the Trough of Bowland. The still evening air was a novelty for those used to windy Pennine conditions but I paid the penalty every time  I rode into a bank of midges, mouth open and gasping for oxygen only to choke on legions of black bugs. I came to an abrupt halt on the climb out of Slaidburn as my bike became two speed following a gear change. Fortunately a few minutes of daylight remained to throw it down on an overgrown verge whilst I looked for disconnected Di2 wires. Reconnected a few minutes later and the race was back on, well, kind of. For once I was enjoying the excitement of chasing distant riders but I wasn’t going to lose sleep over the results.

Settle, Horton and Ribblehead were soon behind me and I was onto the gravel climb up to the Cam High Road. I first rode this way over thirty years ago on what seemed like an epic loop from Sedbergh riding an early 501 steel MTB. Back then I carried little food or spares and the closest thing to a mobile phone were the red telephone boxes that dotted the countryside. What I lacked in contingency kit I made up for with  bulletproof optimism, and somehow this always got me home. Tonight I had spare chain links, pads, tubes, chainring and cleat bolts, down jacket and the rest; I may as have well been equipped for a haul across the Alps. The climb wasn’t really suitable for a road bike on deep section wheels but with a bit of careful line choice I reached the top unscathed. 

Selfie taken and I rolled off down the killer descent into Hawes, if your nerve is strong you can hit over 60mph down here but I feathered my brakes tonight, wary of nocturnal wildlife and mindful of the fresh scars on my right arm following an accident on King Alfred’s Way. Hawes was asleep, it was long past pub closing but my mind was on the looming climb to Buttertubs which kicks up to 25% in places. Sightings of distant red lights reminded me that this was no social ride and I pressed on into the small hours. 

Tan Hill was alight, a new outdoor seating area was festooned with strings of light bulbs. It was a little surreal, the kind of bar you’d expect to find in the corner of a festival field but here we were atop the Northern Pennines at the highest pub in England at 2am. As soon as the CP3 selfie and water were taken I was spinning east towards the market town of Thirsk. After the hills of the Dales this next section always felt to drag, after Reeth the road dropped into the wide valley separating the Dales from the Moors, with only the A1, A19 and the York - Edinburgh railway to break up the patchwork of arable fields. Early dawn was creeping in, un-noticed save the realisation that my headlight was no longer lighting the road. Whilst thick banks of cloud hid the colours of the dawn sky, limbs became chilled by the dense, dank air clinging to the valley floor. Left - right - right - left - left - left - right; I had no idea which direction I was headed, only the sweet scent of rapeseed interrupted by a manure strewn farmyard to punctuate progress. I blindly followed Komoot’s arrow down lane after lane until with a sense of relief I eventually reached Thirsk. The climb from here up Sutton Bank was a tough one after so many flat miles, I inched up the first 25% ramp as sunrise crept over the horizon. I would have celebrated at the top but unable to persuade both eyes to focus on the same piece of road I pulled over and lay down in a lay by for ten minutes. Bliss. BEEP-BEEP-BEEP!

A  rude awakening from my watch alarm; it was time to move - next stop CP4. I hadn’t ridden this way before and I was looking forward to the lanes after Helmsley. I didn’t see a car for hours en route to Bransdale, I threaded through dense verdant woodland until I emerged to climb to the most closely guarded of the North York Moors dales. 

 

A visit to Bransdale church is like stepping back in time, it’s rare to see a car in this dale and the view has changed little in 100 years. Peaceful as this was I needed to move and I pointed my front wheel south towards Hutton-le-Hole. A quick check of the map confirmed that despite the tough gradients this was the best route to the coast so after Hutton I plugged on up to the the top of Rosedale Chimney, down the descent (occasionally waving a rear wheel in the breeze) and then back up the equally steep other side of the dale. I followed this occasionally buckled ribbon of tarmac under clear blue skies as it meandered northwest towards the sea, peering enviously at the tracks heading away from the road across the moors.

A steep drop into the meagre ford at Egmont Bridge preceded a taxing 33% climb up to Egmont. I wasn’t expecting it but by this point in a ride you just deal with whatever the road throws at you. The lanes to Whitby were a riot of bucolic English summer, cow parsley vying with buttercups for attention on the verges between ordered columns of hawthorn and hornbeam. I rejoined the rest of the world above Whitby. I slotted into the steady stream of caged day trippers descending from the Fylingdales road only to discover that my rear tyre had partially deflated mid way through a roundabout.

 

An orange clad rider was ascending the Robin Hood’s Bay climb as I descended - a reminder not to loiter, and I didn’t. Straight back up that hill and onto the cinder track south. As soon as I could I picked up some asphalt and progress was good despite the headwind. I spotted the same rider once more in north Scarborough so I took a gamble on my route and split downhill to join the dawdling tourists on Marine Drive as he stuck to the main road. The headwind was especially savage by the sea but I knew the finish would soon be in sight, I pushed on to thread through the zombie crowds on the pier and I arrived at the Diving Belle. Finisher's selfie taken and tweeted, I could finally relax and swap tales with the other finishers in the Scarborough sunshine.

The Racing Collective organise a series of self-supported rides through the year, find out more and get involved at www.theracingcollective.com.