Ffestiniog

To avoid a busy road, we started cycling on the outskirts of Oswestry and soon crossed the border into the second country of our Five Countries Tour: Wales.

Sunshine, albeit patchy, at last!

With luck, we'd leave the ominous clouds behind.

We enjoyed another lovely tea break in the town of Llangynog before our big climb started.

We have magical water bottles on this tour: Whenever I return to my bike after a tea break or lunch, my bottle is full. (If I pinch myself, will I wake up and find that this has all been a happy dream? Our guides are fabulous.) Though there is a slight downside to this, as the electrolyte mix that sustains me on long rides gets diluted.

The climb started right outside of town, as we would pass through the Berwyn Range.

It wasn't bad, gaining about 1,000 feet over three and a half miles. Somewhere, though, I met a 15% grade (must have been short); that's probably where my heart rate peaked at 184 bpm.

It wasn't long before I was way off the back, the rest of the group no longer in sight.

Which suited me just fine, because (at last!) I was eager to capture some photos of these peaks and valleys.

I've been feeling bad that people have to wait for me, though they're politely saying they don't mind. We were excited to snap photos at the summit, especially as we could see blue skies ahead.

A couple of our riders have been breezily passing me on the hills. They'd opted for hybrids instead of road bikes, and those were equipped with lower gearing (and disc brakes). I briefly wondered if I should have done the same, but even if I'd inquired about the groupset I know I still would have chosen the road bike. I wouldn't be comfortable at speed on the downhills, otherwise.

Oh, and about that. We crossed into Snowdonia National Park, with broad vistas and an enticing roadway—dry and smooth. Only because it leveled out a bit, and the park's logo was beautiful, did I stop [on a descent!].

We regrouped at the bottom, having reached an intersection. Our leader is mindful to keep track of us, although they're trying a new routing solution this year: each bike is outfitted with a Garmin. Every night our guides collect the units, load them up with the next day's route, and charge them. [More magic!]

Not being a Garmin aficionado, I'm leery of accidentally resetting the thing. After some teething pains the first couple of days, things began to run more smoothly. It's reassuring to get advance notice of turns and to see that you're on course, but some tricky bits (parallel roads, or cycle paths) can confuse it. And since the route is statically loaded, we need to be alert about being off-course whenever we do make a detour. The Garmins handle the miles vs. kilometers challenge nicely, as they can be set up either way.

We caught sight of Bala Lake on our way to lunch at a fun place, Gorwelion.

There was more climbing after lunch, but with the sunshine and the views, everyone was smiling.

Just look at that ribbon of road! [Okay, maybe I smiled more broadly than my companions.]

We did stop to admire a waterfall. And even though we climbed some 3,740 feet over 47 miles, we arrived at our hotel in Ffestiniog with time to enjoy the environs,

and a colorful post-dinner sunset for a beautiful close to the day.

Waddington

It was cloudy, with a threat of rain later in the day, but we finally got a break: it didn't actually rain today. While we regrouped at a turning point, I watched three bulls locking horns. The black bull and the brown bull, then the two brown bulls. They didn't seem to be at odds with one another, so I'm not sure what was up.

I was starting to feeling stronger, despite back-to-back days of cycling. My cardio is not where it should be; I'm dropped on every steep hill unless I can take advantage of a roller leading up to it. Today, at least, there was no need for me to walk (yay!)—maximum grade was about 12%. (It's pretty clear that I cross the pain threshold above 13% at my current level of unfitness.)

Our group is pretty well-matched: two riders are stronger and always in the lead, I'm generally in the back (sometimes with another rider), and the middle is elastic.

Today we left Yorkshire Dales National Park behind for the Forest of Bowland, an Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty. [That's a mouthful; more commonly known as an AONB.]

It's spring, so there are lambs in the fields—including a few black ones. (Turns out that's due to a recessive gene, which was my hunch.) From deep in the recesses of my brain, the old nursery rhyme “Baa, Baa, Black Sheep” surfaced; my cycling companions enthusiastically filled in the one line I couldn't dredge up.

When we regrouped at a fork along a country road, we happened upon a few locals assembling for a ride. “You weren't cycling on Monday, were you?” they asked. Their eyes stretched wide when they heard our reply.

With the rainy weather, we've been taking our tea breaks in local pubs, so today's stop was a surprise: A picnic! Complete with tablecloth, camp chairs, tea, and snacks—including Aunt Agatha's homemade shortbread cookies, contributed by one of our riders!

We had a little time to peek into St. Peter and St. Paul's Church in Bolton-by-Bowland, with a history dating back to the 12th century.

We crossed and (many miles later) paused to admire the meandering River Ribble. It was time to start feeding my wildflower photo habit.

Today's route was our shortest, and least taxing—a mere 20 miles and 940 feet of climbing. The group made good time, and I was certainly less pathetic. Our riding ended in the town of Waddington, with an opportunity to wander before lunch. The embattled King Henry VI was captured here in the mid-fifteenth century.

How times change: from a defibrillator in a decommissioned phone booth, to a set of medieval stocks outside St. Helen's Church.

We boarded the van for our journey to Oswestry, where we stayed nearby in a lovely old country house. Sheep were scattered around the surrounding fields, but when the farmer drove up they virtually stampeded to reach him and created quite a ruckus.

Not unlike hungry cyclists, perhaps, at the end of the day? Tea and fresh-baked shortbread cookies welcomed me to my room,

and my lamb burger was the envy of all at dinner. [Eat local.]

Malham

Into each day, some rain must fall. The original plan for today was to bike some 50 miles; I didn't feel strong, and I certainly didn't feel like I had 50 miles in me. Defeated, that's how I felt.

Wiser today, I was fully bedecked in my rain gear. Glad, in fact, that I'd brought the heavy-duty rain pants. As we passed, I considered whether it was feasible to cuddle with some sheep under a tree—all that warm wool was enticing. Maybe I would just have to bail out at the first steep climb.

You know how a tune gets stuck in your head? Yesterday, and today: King of Pain.

I have stood here before inside the pouring rain
With the world turning circles running 'round my brain.

The toughest climb would come early in the ride: Buttertubs Pass, also featured in the 2014 Tour de France. Unlike the pros, we were tackling the more difficult side (north to south). This article sums it up well; I threw in the towel when I hit the 17% grade, facing sections in excess of 20% further up the hill. (One sign warned: 25% grade for 500 yards. Switchbacks, anyone?) It was was too far to walk, especially in the rain and wind. I'd pedaled less than 8 miles.

My disappointment must have been written all over my face; one of our guides snapped a selfie of the two of us, making me laugh and raising my spirits immeasurably.

The views, and the descent, would have been stunning on a clear day. But I chose to stay in the van, with a few other riders. The road was slick, the wind was blowing, and I didn't have a good feeling about it. It was raining enough, and I was dejected enough, that I didn't even snap a photo.

It was the right call not to descend. One of our riders crashed; luckily, not injured.

I felt reasonably well after a bowl of soup and a cup of tea. Might as well get back on the bike.

We stopped to admire Aysgarth Falls, though it was less than picture-perfect with sediment stirred up the by rain-swelled flow.

Kidstones Pass was another climb in the 2014 Tour de France; again, we were tackling it in the opposite direction. Looking at my stats, I did manage a few stretches of road at 13% grade today (heart rate peaked at 180 bpm). Kidstones was steeper than that. Back into the van for me; again, no photos.

Eventually, it stopped raining, the terrain mellowed out, and I began to suffer less—maybe, even, to relax.

Our destination was Malham, but with enough challenges for the day, our leader amended the route.

We had tea at a pub in Grassington, racked up the bikes, and brought another epic day to a close.

I managed to bike 36 miles after all, with a mere 2,533 feet of climbing. (The gaps on the map represent the segments not biked.)

I guess I'm always hoping that you'll end this reign,
But it's my destiny to be the king of pain...

Low Row

Our tour's rendezvous point was the “ATM side” of the clock in the York train station. There was a coffee shop called “AMT” on one side, so I thought that might be a typo—until I spotted a pod of ATMs on the other side of the clock.

The composition of our group surprised me: women outnumbered men. On a cycling trip?! Including our guides, six countries were represented: Australia, Canada, Ireland, Luxembourg, Scotland, and the USA. Three people had traveled with Wilderness Scotland before—an auspicious sign.

Our leader ferried us to Masham, where our second guide was waiting with our bikes. We started with lunch at a pub; coal [yes, coal!] was burning in the fireplace, and the resident dog was curled up in his bed and barely even looked up at us.

The bikes (Merida, Ride 400) were brand new, and labeled with our names. (So were our water bottles!) Capacious bags were mounted on our handlebars, and helmets were also provided (though I'd brought my own, along with my saddle and pedals). Luck of the draw, my bike was tagged “1.”

The bike fitting I'd had many years ago continues to pay dividends: I'd shared the diagram, labeled with each measurement, in advance. I expected that they wouldn't be able match it exactly (crank length, for example), but it was close enough. The bike felt like my own; I was immediately comfortable. The compact double gearing was the same as on my Cervélo (lowest gear 34-32), though the overall setup was heavier (especially with that handlebar bag).

We were headed for the Yorkshire Dales, to reach the inn where we'd stay tonight, near Low Row (inside the National Park). Rain started coming down. We pedaled through a flooded section (not my bike to clean!) and one of our guides shared a new word with us, a family favorite: “floodle” (rhymes with puddle). Spot on.

I'd donned my helmet and shoe covers, but not my rain pants. Silly optimist, I'd been. It wasn't cold, though; and my motto is “once you're wet, you're wet.” Meaning, it doesn't get worse. [But you do end up pretty grimy.]

Except that it got windy. So windy that, coming out of Leyburn and approaching the climb up and over Grinton Moor on Whipperdale Bank (2014 Tour de France Stage 1, albeit in the opposite direction), our leader chose to divert us. We'd ride around the moor, instead. I was grateful, because I was already off the back.

The sore throat that had plagued me for four weeks had finally abated last night; here I am, unfit and still mending, riding in the rain. I'd expected an easy first day, with gentle rolling hills. (Ha!) How did they get horse-drawn carriages up a 12.5% grade? I was gasping for breath; max heart rate was 177 bpm (sustained over a minute and a half).

Detouring around the moor took us through a military “danger zone.” It all looked so pastoral, but I imagine some of the sheep get unlucky.

DANGER: Military Debris May Explode and Kill You

Well, that's plainly stated.

Did I mention the rain? [Oh yes, I think I did.]

I'd been anxious about whether I would forget to ride on the left edge of the road; in practice, it wasn't a problem. Right turns took a lot of conscious effort, though, not to goof and wind up on the wrong side of the road.

The other tricky thing was to remember that the lever for the rear brake is on the left. One of our guides explained that the intent was to brake safely when you need to signal a right turn. An ex-pat colleague had tipped me about the switcheroo in advance, so I was mentally prepared. In practice, this also turned out not to be a problem for me. (Whew.)

From behind, I heard “I don't want to go up that!” ... just as I was thinking the same thing. It's the first day and I'm struggling, should I have bailed out of this trip? Then I thought how aggravated I would have been, sitting at home, to have my sore throat vanish the night before the tour would have started. Keep turning the pedals.

Rain is not conducive to photo stops. Trailing off the back also discourages picture-taking, not wanting to make the group wait even longer for me to catch up.

Getting up the inn's driveway was the final challenge of the day: steep, with broken pavement and potholes. Despair turned to delight when I learned that our guides had delivered our bags to our rooms (and, would fetch them in the morning). What an indulgence!

For the day, 27 miles with 1,745 feet of climbing. How ever will I fare tomorrow?

York

York—as in the original, not the familiar New World “New” version.

I had chosen to fly into Edinburgh (where the cycling tour will end), and take the train to York (where it will begin). Opting to rent a bike from Wilderness Scotland was the right call for this trip. Apart from the complicated logistics of hauling the bike (and its bag), there is a good chance we'll be riding in the rain. Your bike? You clean and service it. Their bike? They handle it all. (Sold.)

The train was packed with rugby fans returning from an important match. So much for those stunning views of the coast, I thought, as I stood outside the one coach with unreserved seats. I got lucky, though; some gentlemen pointed me at a seat that had emptied after the first hour, and graciously kept an eye on my luggage till we disembarked.

With many daylight hours left on a northern spring day, I set out to see what I might of the city.

I crossed the Lendal Bridge over the River Ouse, and headed for the Minster.

I passed the well-preserved birthplace of Guy Fawkes, still rather notorious more than 400 years after he paid the price of his treason.

I strolled through the Shambles, with buildings dating back to the 1400s.

I watched traffic flow under the Micklegate Bar—including an Uber Prius—some 800 years after it was built.

But there is much more history here, dating back to pre-Roman times and the founding of the city nearly 2,000 years ago. [Yes, you read that right.]

The well-chosen site of the York Museum is dense with history, from the ruins of a medieval hospital ...

... to a tower built by the Romans around 300 A.D.

In the shadow of that Multiangular Tower, conservationists were offering close encounters with birds of prey.

And then of course, there are the city walls. The Romans built a wall. The Vikings buried it. [It's a complicated business, this wall thing.]

The medieval wall was visible from my hotel room. I explored a stretch, but there wasn't enough time to complete a full circuit.

Much more to see here ... next time?

Edinburgh

What am I doing, here?!

I really hadn't planned on taking a cycling trip this year. I was kind of in a world-funk. Then a brief mention in the New York Times Travel section caught my eye one Sunday, and more or less on a whim I booked a tour with Wilderness Scotland—their Five Countries Tour.

It seemed like a good idea at the time. It seemed like less of a good idea as I boarded the plane, having cycled only about 333 miles to date this year. And still with a sore throat (week number four). I'd visited the doctor, again, on Monday. “I'm supposed to get on a plane to the UK on Friday,” I lamented. “Have a good time!” he replied.

Technically, I am in South Queensferry; hotel rooms were scarce (and expensive) in the city itself. Curiously, there were 24 Ferraris in the parking lot. (An excited little boy counted them.) Earlier in the day, the road bridge spanning the Firth of Forth had been briefly closed to allow a caravan of 75 of them to cross, evidently celebrating the 50th anniversary of the Ferrari Owners' Club.

Hello, Scotland.

Big Wheel

It's been an odd year. Cold weather. Wet weather. (Lots of that.) Not a whole lot of blogging going on because, well, not a whole lot of cycling going on.

And then came the Cold of the Century. Three weeks of misery (and counting). Yesterday I despaired that I might not be able to ride at all, today (Bike to Work Day). I assured my co-conspirator that I could, at least, lead people the few miles to our rendezvous point. From there, he might not only have to take the lead—he might have to manage the group alone.

Our peloton was smaller this year. Normally, a few weeks before the big day, I promote the ride and start egging people on; but I had no energy for that. When we reached the bridge leading to the Stevens Creek Trail, a woman and her daughter counted off: one, two, ... twenty-four of us. One rider had turned off before that.

Uncharacteristically this year, we were gruppo compatto for most of the route; at the first energizer station [rest stop], a few speedier riders usually split off. Not this year.

A couple of first-timers joined our crowd of mostly-familiar faces. And we celebrated a new first: an odd number of wheels. [Think it through.] A tricycle? [No.] A unicycle.

Who would ride a 36-inch unicycle some 20 miles to the office? Mixing it up in a line of bicycles, in stop-and-go traffic? In the lead, I didn't get to watch him (or to witness the facial expressions of the drivers who passed us). Having watched him dismount, I'd characterize it as a controlled fall, essentially. “There's nothing to it,” he insisted. “You land on your feet.” [Right. You land on your feet. I'd land on my butt. Or worse.]

Once I started moving, my body just kept moving. Maybe I could ride home after all; I felt surprisingly good.

Until I stopped moving. Suddenly, I was tired. My last real bike ride (also a commute to work) had been six weeks ago.

Twenty-four miles for the day. I made it.

So did my followers: No mishaps, no dropped riders, lots of smiling faces, and only one flat tire.