Fifty‑five riders gathered in Warwick’s grey.
A pre‑race breakfast behind them, the Midlands ahead,
A thousand plus kilometres waiting to be fed
Into wheels, legs, lungs, and resolve —
The Solstice Sprint: where only the stubborn evolve.
Twelve would scratch before the end,
But Jamie and Doo refused to bend.
Four pairs began; one pair withdrew —
So, third pair home belonged to us two.
Two solo riders rolled in after our time,
But their journey deserved its own rhythm and rhyme.
Jamie arrived at silly o’clock,
Two sleepy cyclists, one ticking clock.
We pedalled to Warwick, signed in with pride,
Funky caps 4A and 4B by our side.
First wave out at nine on the dot,
Familiar roads warming legs that were not.
Googly‑eyed, but no branches, watching them there.Through Gloucester’s lanes to a tree with a stare —
A sausage bap in Upton, divine,
A horsefly bite — but Doo was fine.
A road closed sign, a 9k detour,Coleford Clock Tower — checkpoint one for sure.
Tesco snacks inhaled with speed,
Then Hay‑on‑Wye for chocolate‑milk need.
A “Wholy Cow” vending machine delight,
Strawberry vending machines spotted earlier in the light.
Up Llangynidr Mountain as darkness fell,
A 5.9 km climb into moorland hell.
At 60 km/h we flew down the side,
Four wild horses blocking the ride.
A skid, a gasp, a breath held tight —
The horses didn’t blink in the night.
Woodland appeared like a sign from above,
First hammock hang — a wild‑camp love.
Fresh enough after the forest sleep,
My Wooki and Otimos quilts keeping slumber deep.
A Maccies stop — of course we would —
Then over the Severn, feeling good.
Clifton Suspension Bridge, checkpoint three,
Brunel’s masterpiece spanning the gorge so free.
Ice cream in Clevedon by the muddy sea,
Then Cheddar Gorge — checkpoint four — set us free.
Down the limestone cliffs with goats jay‑walking,
Hairpins twisting, cyclists gawking.
But menace struck twice as the sun dipped red:
Jamie’s chainset loose, Doo’s carabiner fled.
No trees in sight, no woodland grace,
A skate park became our sleeping place.
Jamie’s spare carabiner failed in seconds flat,
So Doo slept on the ramp — imagine that.
Dreaming of hammocks floating above,
While concrete cradled me without love.
A poor night’s sleep but Subway revived,
Checkpoint five: Sherborne Abbey arrived.
Fan‑vaulted ceilings from 705,
A Saxon treasure still very much alive.
Through Ringwood’s lanes where wild horses roamed,
One even stroked — a moment homed.
Then Bolderwood Arboretum, checkpoint six,
Where redwoods and firs performed their tricks.
Sixty‑foot giants climbing to heaven,
Trees from the 1860s — nature’s brethren.
We longed to camp there, but miles remained,
So onward we rode, legs slightly pained.
A trio of trees became our night’s nest,
Two hammocks, one carabiner — a questionable test.
Each time Jamie turned, Doo’s hammock would sway,
Like two drunk sailors lost in the bay.
But somehow, despite the bouncing spree,
We slept like logs on the forest sea.
A flat rear tyre greeted the dawn,
But tubeless magic meant trouble was gone.
Jamie’s electric pump saved the day,
And the sealant held firm all the way.
Gold Hill — checkpoint eight — steep and short,
The Hovis climb of adverted sort.
A race to the top, lungs on fire,
Felt like a king climbing higher and higher.
Then chalk horses carved in the hills,
White figures watching our rolling wheels.
West Kennet Avenue’s stones stood tall,
Guiding us onward to Avebury’s call.
Checkpoint nine: the henge, the ring,
Where solstice dancers laugh and sing.
Ice cream in sunshine, heat on our skin,
The whole adventure glowing from within.
Earlier this day, with perfect timing,
A 'friend' gifted Doo a carabiner shining —
A tiny miracle for hammock sleep,
A promise of rest we were desperate to keep.
Dragon Hill next, a brutal rise,
Near Uffington’s horse under ancient skies.
Jamie still joked, with a grin so wide,
That Doo was King of the Mountains on that climb’s steep side.
Tetbury’s trees became our bed,
Jamie fell out — one fall each, it’s said.
But Doo slept well, finally secure,
A proper hang, a night to endure.
The last day dawned with tired legs sore,
But we knew we'd finish — that was sure.
Checkpoint ten: Stow‑on‑the‑Wold’s square,
Honey‑stone buildings glowing there.
Trash food, fluids, spirits rising,
The end so close, no more surprising.
Through Cotswold lanes, through heat and haze,
Through five long, sun‑soaked Solstice days.
Back to Warwick where it all began,
A thousand kilometres proving the man.
Jamie and Doo — a steadfast pair —
Rolling in with triumph to spare.
Woo hoo indeed.
Nice one, Jamie.
Nice one, it's true.
We chased the sun and caught it too!
