Time slowed down until Peebles. I’d called Bspoke Cycles ahead of time so they were ready to charge my Di2 system while I found some lunch and killed some time. An hour seemed long enough charge the battery so I felt confident continuing with the ride. (I was sensible before I left the shop and agreed to buy a Di2 charger just in case I needed it again).

Soon after Peebles came the part of this day that I had been anticipating the most - the climb up to the radio tower. It’s only 2.5km but much of the 300m of ascent is too rough and rocky to get into a reasonable rhythm for cycling, so eventually you resign yourself to walking up. 45 minutes later I reached the top, letting relief wash over me, knowing that there won’t be anything else as difficult as that for the rest of the rally.

The next major obstacle was the ditch at Craik. First, through a small area of woodland, thickly populated by conifers, then a sudden change of level and the task of getting yourself and your bike down a 2 metre drop-off – exactly the sort of thing you want friends around you for, but this was a luxury I was noticeably lacking on this ride. I rested my bike on my lap and slowly shuffled down the near-vertical face of the ditch. Success! Well, partial success, I realised I’d snagged my shorts and made a rather embarrassing hole. 

By the time I passed the checkpoint at Hermitage Castle, its feed station – which I later heard had supplied some delicious noodles – was already over, so I pushed on, my aim for the day was to make it slightly beyond the England-Scotland border and camp somewhere in the vicinity of Kielder Forest.

For the first time on this rally I was swarmed by midges on the climb up to Kielder Ridge. It was slow-going, my energy was waning, and I wasn’t moving quickly enough to shake off the midges. Eventually, I had climbed high enough that the wind began to pick up and I escaped the midges, but I then found myself surrounded by fog. With daylight fading quickly as the sun finally went down, I put my front light on full brightness but this didn’t help with visibility, it only added extra illumination to the fog, so I decreased it to a lower brightness to conserve battery. A hare appeared on the trail ahead of me, it seemed convinced that I was chasing it, quickly hopping ahead and then stopping and looking back to see whether I was still advancing. It headed towards the bushes lining either side of the trail but thought better of it and continued along on the path. This was repeated several times over the next 500m. I found it both curious and amusing since I had no way of reassuring the hare that it wasn’t being chased. Eventually, it found a bush it liked the look of and disappeared into the night.

After a bit more climbing, I found myself at the start of Bloody Bush Trail, a narrow, tricky singletrack descent that takes you across the border and into Kielder. Given the thickness of the fog and the late hour I decided to camp here and navigate the singletrack in the morning – especially having crashed on that section on past rides. I found an ideal patch of grass to pitch my tent that was too good to pass up on. I ate some of my savoury snacks for dinner but struggled to get to sleep, repeatedly being disturbed by rustling noises outside my tent. Eventually, I drifted off, only to be woken up 3 hours later by the slowly brightening sky.

Even though the kilometres were ticking by, it became clear to me how much less fun this felt than the previous year when I was riding with friends from Steezy Collective and taking more time to appreciate the journey. Around lunchtime I reached Haltwhistle, popping into a local minimart for a more substantial lunch than just snacks. For the first time in ages, I bumped into some other rally riders, I recognised them as part of the express group. We had a quick chat about how things were going so far, how they were finding things riding as a pair and how they ensured that they stay on good terms with each other whilst riding hard to try and make it to Manchester as quickly as possible.

At some point I realised that I’d spent more than enough time stopped in this town so I set off again, reassuring the guys that I was sure I’d be seeing them out on the road soon as they were no doubt going faster than me. Sure enough, they sped by a few kilometres later, I shouted after them that I’d see them in Manchester. I then caught up with the first non-express riders of the rally, they had started a day ahead of us, aiming to complete the distance in the full five days. I had a quick chat with one rider about how I was finding the express version of the rally as well as how to manage knee pain, something that coincidentally had been giving both of us trouble recently.

The next long section of the rally went by without much of note, my mind firmly on what time I might find myself up at the Tan Hill Inn and whether it would be reasonable to stop for dinner there. By the time I’d climbed up to the Tan Hill Inn – the highest pub in England at 528m above sea level – it was around 9 pm and I could see from the sheer number of bikes parked outside, and the tracking map that the inn was likely heaving with customers and getting a meal quickly was a very unlikely reality. 

I was soon into Ivelet, passing over a stunning stone bridge, knowing what lay ahead: the brutal gradients of Oxnop Scar. A sign at the side of the road warned me of the 25% incline. I slowed to a crawl, then zigzagged back and forth across the road, cursing the extra weight in my bikepacking bags, eventually I decided that I was going so slowly that it’d be safer to get off and walk.

Eventually, the gradient eased off, it was still uphill but not so ridiculously steep, so I climbed back on my bike and pedalled my way up the climb, motivated by the knowledge that last year once I had made it past this ridge I was finally far south enough to have completely escaped the midges. I descended into Askrigg and happened across a large collection of non-express riders at a local bakery. I decided that this was as good a place as any to stop for breakfast. This was a mistake – not the breakfast, that was delicious and the coffee was desperately needed – no, it was the fatigue of the past two days that was catching up with me. I ended up stopping for far longer than I had intended, struggling to find the motivation to push on to make sure that I covered enough distance to finish in Manchester that same day.

At this point I accepted the inevitable: I had neither the energy nor the desire to get to Manchester in 3 days, and anyway, what would I do when I got to Manchester early? It wasn’t a race, I just needed to get there in time for the finish party.  I had caught up with the non-express riders, covering the same distance as them in one day less, and that was enough for now.

I left Askrigg and commenced the ascent of Cam High Road. Don’t let the name confuse you, this is not a smooth tarmac climb, it’s rough and rocky and rattly, but entirely rideable – frustratingly so. It forces you to just keep going, keep the pedals turning, keep moving onwards and upwards. By sheer willpower I made my way up the climb, I reached the top and awaiting us was fresh coffee from Rapha. Bliss. Again, I found myself sitting and socialising for far too long, but there was no rush anymore. 

A fast descent followed, as I left the gravel path and joined a paved road, the deafening roar of the engines from a low-flying military transport aircraft passing overhead startled me, I was later informed that they use the area for training flights. I carried on along the fast road descent and my brain began to wonder when I would reach Ribblehead Viaduct, no sooner than I had thought it, did the viaduct appear in the distance. For a time I was accompanied by a non-express rider, we navigated the gravel tracks and paved paths that dissected the local farmland, she too had seen the low-flying military aircraft and been startled by it. There were sheep scattered across the fields and paths ahead of us, there were no dry stone walls to pen them in, and they seemed less skittish than the sheep I had encountered earlier in the rally. Eventually, I dropped back and let my temporary ride companion push on ahead of me as I was deliberately going slowly to avoid aggravating my knee any further.

The timing was perfect for a lunchtime stop in Ingleton, where I recharged my Di2 by plugging my charger into my powerbank, connected the other end to my handlebar port, then popped into the shop, grabbed a pasta salad and a drink, and sat on the steps with familiar faces. By the time I’d had my slow lunch, my battery was sufficiently charged for the remaining distance, so I set off again.

The last climb of the day was Salter Fell, I couldn’t remember a single thing about Salter Fell, I wondered why, maybe it just wasn’t memorable. I was wrong, it was horrid, the climb felt like it went on for hours, and then when you finally reached the top, you didn’t even get the reward of a nice descent. The descent was shallow and lumpy, refusing to let you build up much speed or achieve any decent recovery, I found myself wishing for the next section of tarmac to come sooner.

Finally, I reached a paved road and picking up speed I soon found myself in the little village of Slaidburn. A welcoming inn looked enticing, but again, seeing the sheer number of bicycles parked outside, I decided it was not yet late enough for dinner and it’d be better if I pressed on to at least the next town, otherwise there was a real risk that I’d go no further on this day. So I pushed on beyond Slaidburn to Bolton-by-Bowland, where I found a different problem. I was put off by the lack of bicycles, not a single one to be seen outside the local inn, so I carried on. A short while later a pair of riders caught up with me, they informed me that they were staying at an inn in Gisburn and enquired how far I was going. I knew that I wouldn’t be going much further once I got there and I didn’t want to pass up the opportunity of a hot meal so I decided that it was worth the wait – and the landlord even gave permission for us to camp on a patch of grass out the back. That was one less thing off my mind, I at least knew where I’d be staying for the night.

After finishing a tasty dinner of the soup of the day, followed by pie with mash and vegetables, smothered in gravy, we headed out back to sort out our sleeping arrangements. The ground was almost too hard for tent pegs and I briefly questioned my decision to use a lightweight tent rather than a bivvy, especially seeing how much quicker and easier it was to set up a bivvy, but then I remembered the midges of the past 2 days and pushed that question from my mind. Before I went to sleep, I remembered to plug my Di2 into my powerbank to receive a proper charge, not wanting to risk another dying battery on the final run into Manchester the next day.

A tricky section of gravel followed, forcing me off the bike on the unrideable switchbacks.  I was saved by a petrol station with a convenience store attached. A coffee from a self-service machine, paired with a tuna bap was just the ticket and gave me the energy I needed to make it up the next climb – a slightly busy and very exposed A-road. The headwind and harsh sun made everything feel much harder. At the top I was greeted by some rally riders who had already finished and doubled back with their van to hand out bananas and snacks. I gratefully took a banana and continued on my way, aware of my penchant for procrastination and not wanting to be the last rider to make it to Manchester.

The last climb of the rally was up next: Rooley Moor Road. This one starts as a road – steep, though not as steep as Oxnop Scar – but irritatingly regularly punctuated by drainage channels that break up your rhythm. It then turns to farm tracks, a mixture of gravel, grass and large, uneven slabs of rock. It’s very rideable if you pick the right line. I found myself switching from one side of the track to the other trying to find the better, smoother surface for riding, but eventually had to accept that neither was smoother than the other. At times I found myself riding along a narrow strip of grass that dropped off steeply at either side just for a reprieve.

Soon enough I made it to the top of Rooley Moor Road, it was ridiculously windy, which made sense as it is the site of a wind farm, in the distance I could see the outskirts of a city: Manchester. I was almost there. I just had to navigate this descent and some fast gravel tracks and I’d soon be rolling into the square outside the Rapha clubhouse in Manchester ready to eat, drink and catch up with the others. The rest of the ride went almost exactly like that except for the rain that fell during the descent of Rooley Moor Road.

I rolled into St Ann’s Square in Manchester to the cheers of other riders. I had made it to the end. I had survived the numerous climbs, the knee pain and whatever was happening with my battery, and just over 500km after leaving Edinburgh I had arrived in Manchester. Now there was just the issue of how to get me and my bike back to London amidst yet more train strikes, but that was a problem for me to solve the next day. For now, I would just bask in the knowledge that I made it and I didn’t have to do any more pedal strokes.

Photo courtesy @http://www.instaggram.com/roofowler