Ship’s Log: "A Slightly Sunnier Form of Punishment"

At last, a ride bathed in sunlight. Naturally, I was still clad in full winter gear because, despite the deceivingly cheerful sky, the temperature remained at a level best described as unfriendly. 

The day’s mission? 

Another 65-mile loop, this time to Huntingdon, soundtracked by classic trance mixes—a fitting choice, given the slightly hypnotic nature of long solo rides. The key objective remained the ongoing flapjack trials, along with the noble pursuit of stretching the distance I could ride without needing to stop. 

All was going smoothly until mile 40, at which point my energy levels started to resemble an old battery in winter—technically functional but increasingly unreliable. And then, as if placed there by fate (or an intimate knowledge of exhausted cyclists’ weaknesses), I rolled past a mobile coffee seller by the name of Perky Beans. I made it a full 50 yards before caffeine-induced decision-making took hold and I executed a dignified U-turn. The barista, stationed there twice a week, proved to be both an excellent coffee provider and a sympathetic audience. I confided my Chase the Sun ambitions—at this stage, known only to my wife. She was suitably impressed and regaled me with tales of cycling through Northern Ireland, which naturally led to the dangerous thought: Perhaps I could sign up for the Northern Ireland edition next year? A reckless notion, but one to file away for later. 

Suitably refueled, I rolled back onto the road—straight into an uncooperative headwind. The forecast had promised a Northwesterly, but what I actually got was a full-force Westerly, because of course I did. Nothing like a deceptive weather report to keep things interesting. 

Fifteen miles later, I stopped at my usual café, the legendary Cow Shed Café, purely on the basis that I felt like it and had decided that 65 miles in 1°C temperatures justified whatever pastry-based indulgence I desired. Though on this occasion I went for the sausage roll as I had a date with a window glazing showroom straight after my ride.

My only real regret on this ride—aside from voluntarily subjecting myself to hours of self-inflicted suffering—was failing to capture what could have been a truly chef’s kiss moment of railway photography. 

As I crested a hill, I was gifted a perfect cinematic spectacle: an LNER Azuma effortlessly overtaking a Thameslink train on the East Coast Main Line, both slicing through the countryside in perfect synchrony, bathed in glorious, golden sunlight. 

And what did I do? Did I, a modern and supposedly competent human, instinctively whip out my phone and immortalize this fleeting masterpiece? 

Of course not. Instead, I thought about getting my phone out. Considered it. Weighed my options. And by the time my brain had finished its leisurely debate on whether this was, in fact, worth documenting, the trains had vanished. Gone. Out of sight. Never to be photographed by me. 

So, instead of a stunning image, I am left only with the memory—fuzzy, imperfect, and absolutely useless for bragging rights on social media. A cruel reminder that hesitation is the enemy of greatness. Or at the very least, the enemy of cool train photos.

And so, the quest continues—one coffee, one headwind battle and one missed photo opportunity at a time.