Shake, rattle and roll

June 18, 2024

LEJOG Day nine: Carlisle to Larkhall

I was up and out early today; this was the longest planned ride of our tour, and I was hoping to make good time on some flattish roads. We cycled out of Carlisle just before 0900 and headed northwards, into a slight headwind.

Much of the day's riding was apparently to be on cycle tracks, which sounded promising. The map seemed to indicate that I'd spend my time adjacent to the main A74(M), the only motorway road bearing traffic from the borders up into Scotland, towards Glasgow and then Edinburgh. As you'd expect, it was a pretty thunderous neighbour.

On the left, our road. On the right, everyone else's. We felt like social outcasts.

It didn't take long to leave England behind. Signs for Gretna indicated that we might already have crossed the border. Gretna became infamous as the place to elope to, from back in the mid-eighteenth century when a law was passed banning the marriage of under 21's who couldn't secure parental consent. Since the law didn't apply in Scotland, and Gretna was the first town over the border, it became the go-to location for louche weddings between English folk. I already had enough women in my life, what with Mrs M. at home and Raven on tour, so I didn't feel inclined to indulge. The trip's been expensive enough already.

I was thinking that perhaps there was going to be another "welcome to ..." sign that bypassed cyclists, when one loomed into view. Scotland was pleased to see us, after all. Alongside the sign, two dutch tourists who'd already cycled from home, all the way up through England, and were now heading east. They were laden with enormous panniers and wanted to know where all my luggage was: I was certainly travelling light in comparison. I reassured them that I had very technical kit which I washed daily, and once they were assured of my cleanliness, they agreed to hold my camera and take the obligatory souvenir shot, for which they'd also just posed. As we finished, a group of about ten touring motorcyclists rolled up, revving noisily and waiting for the same picture. So Raven and I headed off into the wilds, to see what adventures Scotland might bring.

I think they need a layby here. It was almost the most populated spot of the day.

The answer, disappointingly, seemed to be "not that much of interest". My excitement was momentarily piqued as we passed through the small settlement of Ecclefechan, because who doesn't like a novelty place name? I could see lots of scope here: 'ecclefechan eejit' sounded like a deeply satisfying, yet wholly blameless, term of abuse. And if this was the best of my musings, you can see that the route was less than inspirational. The GPS unit would tease me by promising a waypoint three miles ahead, and when we reached it, would tell me to ignore a layby and keep going for a further five. Aaand repeat. So, a motorway, a long flattish road, and almost nothing else. It wasn't a great start.

Things looked up 30 miles in when we pulled into the small town of Lochmaben. We'd spotted a bakery, for coffee. It was a welcome hive of activity, and I was tempted to look around a bit, but knowing how far we had to go, thought we'd best keep going. We did however pause for another rapid photo, as we were now passing our first lochs. I'm sure bigger ones will be along shortly.

I can vouch for the quality of the Empire Biscuits here, if you're ever passing.

Not a lake, and no mere mere. This was a genuine Scottish loch, although if you're guessing it was called Maben, you're wrong. Confusingly, this was Mill Loch. We couldn't find a mill.

The next fifty miles were just about the worst of the tour. The road continued largely flat, deserted and featureless, with a motorway always at hand and a headwind pushing us back. I'd expected to make fair progress but what was really stopping us, and what I haven't yet mentioned, was the road surface. The budgets had clearly been spent on the bit where everyone else was travelling, and this road - the original route, I imagine, which predated it - had been left to fall into disrepair. It wasn't that there were potholes - we could have avoided those - it was that the surface was unremittingly bad, so that we bounced up and down exhaustingly for mile after mile. The promised cycle track proved to be just the bit on the left of the carriageway, divided by a faded white line, and more often than not this was the section where the loosened chippings from everywhere else had come to die.

A highlight: on this section, they'd taken pity and actually improved the cycle surface, some years back. For much of the journey, the cycle lane was either as bad as the carriageway, or much worse, and invariably full of sharp stones.

Every mile felt like ten. The rain had started and I'd stashed my sunglasses in my rear pocket, only to find some miles down the road that they appeared to have bounced out, along with a few of my fillings. Raven was doing well to hang onto both wheels. And, as we were learning, there was a reason that someone had chosen to put a wind farm along the roadside. The turbines turned angrily, as gusts from the general direction of John O'Groats headed southwards, carrying tales of ecclefechan eejits and their bicycle tours.

It was around 20 miles from the end of our journey that we finally left the motorway behind, turning right onto more picturesque roads. By now - if you hadn't gathered - I'd had enough. I counted down the slowly-passing miles until our lunch stop, which was unusually late, simply because there'd been no obvious earlier options.

I'd researched a promising place right at the roadside, with good reviews from other cyclists. As it got tantalisingly closer, I stopped counting miles and instead counted the tenths. And then we arrived. And it was shut, with no explanation. Now, and if there'd been any remaining doubt, I'd very very definitely Had Enough.

The Tinto tea room, near Thankerton. Apparently they do lovely food. I wouldn't know. They were ecclefechan shut.

I dismounted, because both Raven and I needed a break. In my saddlepack, some emergency cake (thank you, Lesley). I ate it, I looked at the map for the next nearest settlement, and in the manner of a sailor coming ashore, I waited for the continuing vibrations in my nether regions to cease, as I reacclimatised to life out of the saddle. And once they had, I clipped back in, and headed seven miles along the road to Larkhall, with a more determined and positive mindset.

I collapsed into a lovely teashop along the main road, for a tuna toastie and some bakewell tart. The sun briefly came out. And the scenery, sans motorway, perked up. We'd got this.

Scottish hills in Lanarkshire. They had to fence them off to stop people using the fields instead of the darned cycle tracks.

At 4pm, we wheeled into the hotel, up to our room, and collapsed. Six hours later, I've eaten, slept, and reinserted the loose fillings. Raven's got a couple of big nicks in her tyres from the sharp stones, and I'm feeling a bit like I've done a marathon. But tomorrow, come what may, we'll be at it again. This tour has had some incredible days, and perhaps it's true that you need some shade to appreciate the light. As the philosopher said, life is like a box of chocolates. And there's a lot more eating to be done yet.

Believe me, it felt further. Route details at https://ridewithgps.com/trips/191991931 . I recommend you only consider this one if you have very wide, soft tyres, and possibly (forgive me) a similar backside.

Today's ride: 85 miles (137 km)
Total: 605 miles (974 km)

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