By now the weak sun had, for now at least admitted defeat by the blanket of cloud, considering the time of day it was well gloomy. You can’t talk all the time and for the last kilometres to checkpoint three we rode in companionable silence along roads almost completely devoid of traffic. The highlight, if you could call it that was catching and passing an old bloke towing half a field of food in a trailer behind his bike, bet he’s not riding to Dusseldorf though!
“This looks like us,” I announced after spotting a blue arrow up ahead.
“‘Bout time,” Ron sighed, “maybe we shoulda done the hundred.”
“Wimp!” to be honest though, I’ve been harbouring the same thoughts.
We swung off the main road into some sort of yard populated by three cars, one of which was ours, a single rider just about to set off, Dad, a table with food and drink and of course the stamp man.
“I was just gonna come looking,” Dad stated as we pulled up.
“Considering how flat it is it’s been damn hard.”
“And boring,” Ron added.
Bikes parked, we got our cards stamped and did a locust job on the food!
“Bikes okay?” Dad asked.
“Mines okay,” I offered, “Ron’s back wheel’s got a little kick.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” Ron admitted.
“I’ll take a quick look,” Dad told us.
“So, you enjoying it girls?” our ‘host’ enquired.
“It’s hard work with just us,” Ron allowed, “I thought there’d be a group we could hide in.”
He chortled at that, “there’s not many do this long route, I think its only twenty signed up today, about ten ahead of you.”
“Maybe we can catch some of them,” I suggested.
“Only in your fathers car I think, they are mostly about twenty minutes ahead.”
“Bum,” I sighed.
“You two gonna get moving,” Dad prompted returning to the table, “your wheels okay Roni, slight twist in your tyre is all.”
Well I guess it’s the homeward run now and it is flat.
“Let’s do it, Ron.”
“I’ll see you at the next control,” Dad told us.
“Okay.”
“Good luck, girls,” control man stated with a cheerful grin and wave.
We clicked in and returned to the road.
Getting going again after a stop is invariably less than fun, the longer the stop the less fun. The only saving point this time was the slight tail wind we picked up as our route turned south, how do I know it was south? Well duh, the sun was off to our right, what you could see of it through the cloud.
“So Amanda comes next week?”
“Saturday,” I confirmed.
“Will she race on Sunday?”
“Dunno, never asked.”
“Ga-ab! You’re not much good as a spy,” Ron chortled.
“Well I spy a turn by those trees.”
“But she’s going to Japan?”
“Uh huh, BC stumped up for her flight, they put to for mine too.”
“I wouldn’t’ve minded going,” Ron sighed as we made the turn.
“Well it’s gone from one race and some photo ops to racing nearly every day.”
“Still,” she lamented.
“Promise to bring you something cool back.”
“You’d better, Gaby Bond.”
With the wind’s assistance our speed had picked up a bit and this leg was a bit shorter than the others, so we turned into the windmill stop for the second time about three and a half hours after setting out. There were some other riders milling about, long stoppers from the one fifty or later starters on the hundred – whichever they were, from here back to Dusseldorf we’ll all be riding the same route. After the last hour or so, which was a comforting thought, hopefully we can get a bit of ‘rest’ rather than slogging along for another sixty odd K.
“I was talking to the chap doing the control,” Dad started, “says it’s a fastish run from here, fairly straight.”
“Good,” I grunted.
“You alright, kiddo?”
“Bit tired.”
“You could’ve done the hundred,” he pointed out.
“You ready, Gab?” Ron queried as she returned from using the facilities – again!
“Uh huh.”
“Come on then, those guys in the red and black are just about to leave.”
There were five of them, ‘bout Dad’s age I guess, we timed our departure so that we reached the road with them. We easily slipped onto the back and just the fact of being in a group reduced our effort for a similar speed. From Immerath we ducked under the autobahn then over a second motorway, our companions apparently happy for us to sit at the back.
“What’s with all the closed roads?”
“Kohl,” Ron noted.
“Kohl? As in green stuff?”
“Not kohl, coal, you know for the power stations?”
That sort of coal.
“You remember at the Spreewald, the open cast? Same here, brown coal.”
Now I remember, Herr Ansbacher was on about this before the summer hols.
“I didn’t realise it was still happening here.”
The riders ahead made a turn and we rode through the remains of a village, the signs posted at the roadside suggested that this area would be destroyed in pursuit of brown coal within the next year. It was eerie, the Freiwillig Fire station, stood empty, houses derelict, no life beyond the odd crow watching our silent progress. We took a turn on the front more out of politeness than need and soon enough we returned to some form of civilisation.
Up above the sun was doing its best to break through the greyness, just as it started to warm a little the sky suddenly came over black. In less than a minute the wind got up and rain started lashing down.
“Capes!” I suggested.
“Bus shelter.” Ron pointed to the roadside.
We jammed brakes on and quickly joined a couple of other riders already sheltering there, our companions pressing on through the downpour without us. Race capes were quickly donned and we huddled together in the face of the precipitation. Five minutes, ten minutes.
“Looks to be easing off.”
“You wanna push on?” Ron asked.
“Can’t stay here forever,” I pointed out, “sun’s coming out now.”
The rain continued but at a lesser rate, the wind having dropped considerably.
“Come on then,” I suggested.
On wet roads we set off once more, alone again, hopefully we’ll pick up some others on the way or at the last checkpoint.
“Stop!” Ron shouted.
With a squeal of brakes I came to a halt, “wassup?”
“Turn, that last corner.”
“You sure? I didn’t see anything.”
“Look that’s the guys from the Bushaltestelle.”
Our co rain refugees waved and shouted to us, indicating that indeed we had overshot. The sign was obscured by a parked van, at least we hadn’t gone too far off route. It was only a couple of hundred metres to the final kontrolle, a last chance to refill bottles and grab some extra food.
“You get caught in that cloudburst, girls?” the woman doing the stamping asked.
“Yeah, we had to hide in a bus shelter,” Ron told her.
“Well it’s not far now, you’ve done the one fifty?” she asked seeing our slightly soggy cards.
“Uh huh.”
“We haven’t had many Jan Wellem’s through today, well done!”
“Jan Wellem’s?” I queried.
“Geez, Gab, don’t you know anything? He was like the king of Dusseldorf, everyone knows that,” Ron stated.
“We call the riders doing the long route Jan Wellem’s because it goes past some of his schlosser,” our stamper explained.
“’Kay.”
“Where’s your dad?” Ron queried looking around the sports ground car park.
“No idea, we should press on.”
“Ready when you are.”
The next few kilometres reminded me very much of the lanes back home in north Nottinghamshire lanes around Clumber, twisty, narrow and fun to ride. Once again the roads were devoid of other riders but after the downpour the skies have cleared so that the sun is making its presence felt.
“You sure we’re going the right way?” Ron asked, “we shoulda seen some other riders by now.”
“There’s not been any signs,” I observed, “the maps not too clear though.”
“It doesn’t feel right, I’m sure we should be heading towards Neuss now, it was off to the left at those last lights.”
“If there’s no sign at the next junction we’ll ask someone,” I proposed.
No sign but I recognised the road ahead – we were here this morning!
“I don’t think we’re far from the bridge, we came this way earlier, we can just retrace.”
Okay so we were further away than I thought and maybe we should’ve turned right at the petrol station but we were now on the lane leading us to the Rhein bridge, sugar, nearly seven hours ago! After so far with hardly any up to speak of, the ramp up to the autobahn was hard work but we could see Flehe from the bridge and in less than five minutes we were back to the HQ.
“There you are,” an agitated Dad pronounced.
“That’s us,” I managed.
“We were just about to send out a search party, what happened? Some riders saw you just after checkpoint five but you disappeared.”
“We must’ve missed a sign,” I started.
“By the time we realised I think we were far from the course but Gab recognised the road so we retraced from this morning.”
“Why didn’t you answer your phone kiddo?”
“It didn’t ring, honest!”
“Well you’re here now, get yourselves cleaned up.”
“Yes, Dad,” I replied stifling a yawn.
Maddy Bell © 14.11.2014
Comments
If they missed their turn, I
If they missed their turn, I am wondering how many km's the two actually rode without thinking about it. I'm guessing a little more than the 150 they had decided on in the beginning.
Guilty as charged?
Of forgetting to charge the phone, I bet, That's the little blonde's usual trick. Honestly, if not for Dave, she'd've arrived without a bike..
And there it is, that feeling, when you suddenly realise it's a bit further than you planned, and only your legs between home and nowhere. It's a tad unsettling.
Bit like Owler Bar in the dark.
"Reach for the sun."
the chapter
Is based quite closely on my own experience of riding the Jan Wellem in 2009 - in my case one of the direction arrows had been taken down (illegally) by some politicos putting up election posters! It would be a nice event for your cucumber, the biggest hill really is the bridge over the Rhein!
Madeline Anafrid Bell
Jan Wellem
We have some nice flat century rides (100 miles) over here. I did a couple of them on my fixed gear bike, including one with a group from work where all 5 of us were riding fixies. That was great fun, but I was good & ready to coast afterwards!