The one item of
clothing that I was most glad I decided to fit into my personal kitbag for Antarctica
this season was a pair of cycling bib shorts. At first glance a strange choice,
perhaps. Antarctica is not a place you typically associate with going for a
bike ride. In fact, in previous years I have reluctantly all but given up any ideas
of cycling when at Rothera. I’ve reverted to running, or at least tried to –
those comical first weeks of the legs trying to remember how to run again after
a summer in the Lake District attached to a bicycle. Each year I have all good
intentions of trying to keep up some cycling fitness, but there are only so
many times you can bear to sit on the Watt Bike in a windowless, sweaty gym and
do a virtual cycle up Box Hill (even if there is a poster of Mont Ventoux on
the wall). I find exercising indoors to be largely soulless. I’d always much
rather be out in the elements. In fact, my favourite conditions for runway running
at Rothera are the snowy and incredibly windy days. It’s the most immersed in
the landscape I feel when I’m down there. It can all seem a little too far out
of reach on a perfectly calm, blue-sky day. But when the wind blows, it feels
as if the continent itself reaches into the depths of your soul – and you
experience the full wonder of life flowing through your veins. Although, I must
admit, that if I were to go cycling in similar conditions it would feel utterly
miserable and deeply cold. My hands and feet, while able to stay toasty warm
when running, become like blocks of ice in no time at all on the bike. Which is
why, despite there being a selection of hardtail mountain bikes and fat bikes available
for recreation on station, I have largely avoided it in the past (save for a
couple of laps of the runway in good weather).
|
Snowy runway running |
Something had
changed though. My love of cycling has become almost insatiable over the past
few years. I no longer consider myself a runner or even a footballer. And my
big dream of this season was to cycle around the flagline on a fat bike. The
flagline is a 13km loop on a snowy expanse up above station. The flags indicate
the area in which it is safe to travel – outside of the flags lie crevasses,
yawning, ice blue beneath a thick covering of snow. A few years ago, I got the opportunity
to explore a crevasse on a rec trip. My imagination had not conceived just how
vast and scary they are – I was at genuine risk of pooping my pants when I stepped
back and abseiled over the edge.
|
Abseiling down a crevasse |
But, despite the
hazards that lurk just beyond, the flagline is a place of wonderful escapism, safety,
and solace. It is a chance to step away and to float above the busyness and
intensity of station life for a while. Even just making it to the top of the
ramp and looking back down on the clutter of buildings and human activity puts
an interesting perspective on it all. You can suddenly see the entirety of your
world from the outside, and you marvel at how that which so often seems
everything now just features as a small part of your vision as you take in the
vastness of the sea and the mountains that surround. From the top of the ramp,
you travel along a corridor of flags known as the Traverse. To your left is the
rocky and dragon like outcrops of Reptile Ridge, and to your right the snow drops
away to ice cliffs and the sea below. I had run along here many times before, and
had sometimes gone on Nordic Skis, but I had never taken a bike.
|
The Rothera Traverse |
After a while
the corridor of flags opens out and you reach the start of the loop known as
the flagline. If I were setting out to attempt the full loop, I would always go
in an anti-clockwise direction. There is no rule about the direction of travel
around the flagline, only the habits we develop and then impose upon ourselves as
the most unbreakable of rules.
|
Out on the Flagline. Between heaven and earth. |
The early season
brought with it the tail end of winter storms, and it was a while before the
conditions were anywhere near safe or favourable enough to head round the
flagline on a bike. From a safety point of view, you needed to have, at the very
minimum, a six-flag bubble of visibility – you must be able to see three flags
in front of you, and three flags behind. There was also a wind speed limit to
going up the ramp and beyond. In terms of favourable conditions for cycling –
you wanted the snow to be as firm as possible, and the best time to go would
usually be early morning after a night where the temperatures had remained
below zero. You also hoped that a skidoo might have recently headed up the hill
so as to compact the snow. As the summer progressed and the daytime temperatures
rose above freezing, sometimes to as much as five degrees, the snow would
become slushy and practically unrideable. On one such occasion I found myself
running and slipping along the Traverse whilst pushing my bike until sense
overcame my stubbornness and I gave it up as a bad idea. I needed to be
patient, and I also needed to be committed to getting up early enough to make
the most of the best conditions. This was not always possible depending on
which shift pattern I was working – quite often my working day would start at 7.00am.
However, if I happened to be working the nightshift week, it put me in the
perfect position to go out on the bike. Not only was I finishing work by about
06.30am, I had also been up all night and been able to monitor the overnight
temperature and wind conditions. This became a bit of an obsession, and an obsession
which was then picked up by my friend Dan who started joining me on these
biking adventures. Initially though, and occasionally after that, I would go
alone.
|
Early morning round the flags on a dingle day |
On these solo
jaunts I would sometimes listen to music or play a pre-downloaded episode of Never
Strays Far (my favourite cycling Podcast). But more often than not I would
simply listen to the world around me – listen to the sounds of that frozen land.
Once you were along the Traverse and out of sight of station you found that you
also left the noise of that place far behind. The constant hum of the
generators, the bleeping of reversing vehicles, and the chatter over the hand-held
radios. Instead, your ears would be full of the sound of your own breathing,
and of your heart beating with the effort of making forward progress in the
snow. And there was the almost squeaking sound of the bike tyres as they slowly
turned in this crystalline land – tyres which would virtually be deflated to flat
on days when the snow was soft, or for going fast on the downhills. And there
was the involuntary whooping as you sped along on pristine snow with the mountains
of the West Antarctic Peninsula stretched out before you, and the vast and
sparkling sea. And then there were the sounds beyond – beyond our human
presence there. And even on the calmest of days there was never nothing - our
ears would attempt to interpret the divine silence which occasionally graced
this most remote of lands. Perhaps it was the wind from many hundred of miles
away, reaching us now only as an echo, softened by a hundred snowy peaks. Or
maybe it was the ocean far below, a small iceberg teetering slightly in an
otherwise millpond bay. Many and varied are the emotions of those who spend any
length of time in Antarctica – there is camaraderie and there is loneliness, there
is unbridled joy and there are moments of despair, there is resilience and there
is the crumbling of the spirit, there is the feeling of permanence and there is
the awareness that all things – good and bad – shall eventually pass. And yet,
there was no thought or no word what we ourselves did not bring here – our fears
and our doubts, our hopes and our dreams were our very own. We gave this land
its mystery and we found that this land neither gives nor cares. And perhaps
this is why we were all drawn here in the first place – to a world where we can
feel the fullness of our humanity with both its insignificance and its strength.
To stand in that incredible wilderness and feel so small, and yet to have overcome
everything we thought to be impossible by simply standing there at all.
|
The most remote of lands |
As much as I
loved the contemplative state of mind that solitude brings, I equally enjoyed
the many times that I went around the flagline with Dan. His enthusiasm and
love of cycling matched my own – we spent one morning drinking coffee and
recounting every puncture we’d ever had. Another morning, we had a long, and
frankly fascinating conversation about curtains – this was not a friendship
built on cycling alone. Dan is one of those people with infectious good humour –
even on the days when the conditions were so bad that much of our progress was
in a falling off sideways direction, I’m not sure I’ve ever laughed so much on
a bike (and cycling is one of my favourite things in the world). Perhaps we
actually laughed the most on those days. On a particularly soft downhill
section, Dan declared that he needed a mud guard fitted to the bike to stop the
snow from going down his bum crack. Dan did not bring cycling bib shorts to
Antarctica.
|
Dan and I. (Photo credit: P. Shroff) |
The return to
station from Skiway Col (the highest point on the true flagline) was always
such a thrill. Even if the snow conditions were slightly sub-optimal you could
still get up a good amount of speed if you were prepared to go for it – brain off,
brakes off was the mantra. And I actually found that this was also the best way
of staying upright. After getting back to station after one such ride, Dan said
to me, “you have a specific smile for when you’re going fast on a bike. It’s different
to your other smiles – I’ve never seen it before.” I don’t find it easy to adequately
express just how much joy riding a bike brings to me, and it made me happy to know
that this was not simply something I felt, but also something which could be
seen. And for it to be seen meant that I was sharing this experience with
someone – and it has undoubtedly been one of the greatest delights of this
Rothera season, going on lots of bike rides with my friend. And every ride we
went on felt different – the weather would be different, and we would talk of different
things. One day we stopped and made snow angels, another time we went to say
hello to Vicky (the deputy chief pilot) who was up at the Skiway in VPF-BB, one
of our Twin Otter planes.
|
Red bike. Red plane. (Photo Credit: D. Price) |
I would however
repeatedly tell Dan that cycling back along the Traverse was just like cycling
on the Cinder Track with a road bike. The Cinder Track runs along the Cumbrian
Coast between Seascale and Sellafield. It is mostly gravel, but there are these
occasional sections of deep sand – blown by the west wind onto the cycle path. It
was a route I sometimes took with my good friends Ali and Ian (who are largely
responsible for kick-starting my cycling obsession). In order to get through
the sand traps on a road bike you simply had to go for it, and hope that you had
enough speed and enough nerve to get you through. And that was the similarity to
the Traverse at Rothera – unless the snow was really firm there was very little
chance of getting going again if you lost momentum or slid to a stop. I loved getting
into that headspace – of being so focussed and feeling confident. Every time we
arrived back onto the ramp, I would invariably mention the Cinder Track, even
though I knew that I had told Dan about it every time before. I even created a twinned
Strava Segment in its honour – The Cinder Track of the South.
|
Ian riding the Cinder Track |
My last weekend
on Station brought with it a fresh dump of snow. This was not what you wanted
for cycling, and so I had all but put the idea of it out of my mind. However,
it was my last weekend, and Dan was coming off the night shift week, so his
sleep pattern was still all over the place. I woke up on the Sunday morning to
find that I had a string of WhatsApp messages from him that started at 04.00am:
The temperatures were good; a skidoo had been up there yesterday evening; Barry
had headed out for a run and seemed to be moving well along the Traverse; the
temperatures were still good; I’ve drunk five cups of coffee now and eaten
three slices of toast; I’ve been reading an essay about Chile, Argentina, colonialism,
imperialism, and Antarctica – it has more than 10 references, and I can tell
you all about it if we go for a bike ride; okay you’re coming or okay please
stop messaging me about cycling; wahey! And that was the dialogue which
provided the backdrop to the last ride of the season. I was very tired, and I
had reached the point where I was ready to leave, and yet when it came to it,
when all thoughts had turned northwards, I could not resist the call of the
sublime. The conditions were terrible though, and we very quickly gave up the
idea of cycling the full flagline. The snow lay untouched there, and I don’t
think I made it even two metres before the bottom half of the wheels had completely
disappeared from view. But we did make it to the Caboose (a basic,
container-like shelter with a stove, and a seating area covered in sheepskins) –
by following the tracks left by a skidoo from the previous evening. We had fun
trying to take a timed photo of ourselves with our bikes outside the Caboose.
We both had the same strange thought that it had similarities to the iconic
photo of Christopher McCandless in front of the ‘Magic Bus’ from Into the Wild –
in so far at least as it was the presence of humans and a metallic, inanimate
object in a landscape that perhaps neither had any place in being. But there we
were, and it was not without thought, and it was not a reckless, hell-bent
desire to feel like we had conquered something or some land. It was ultimately an
incredibly humbling experience to be there, and while it was undeniably one of immense
personal gain, it was also a chance and an opportunity to be involved in a line
of work that may well contribute an awful amount of good and worth to our beautiful
planet, our only home, and one that we have been far too careless about for far
too long.
|
Dan and I at the Caboose |
And of course, the
only intentions and motivations we can speak of and lay claim to are our own,
and so I have been speaking here of my own, and of my own thoughts and experiences
of living and working at Rothera. It was easy to get so absorbed in the
busyness of work here that you forgot to take a step back and look at the
bigger picture, to remember why we were there, to remember all the science
projects that the Station was enabling and supporting. And even being the
smallest of cogs in this process, life here gave you an incredible sense of
purpose and a sense of worth because you saw that however small the cog, they
all matter, and we all make a difference in the end. And it wasn’t just this.
There was something much more. These free-time adventures on the bike gave not
only a healthy perspective on work - they also gave me an important perspective
on life as a whole. It was a reminder to do the things that make you smile
differently, and to spend time with good friends in whose company you could laugh
or cry just as easily. We do not get forever. And having an urgency for life is
not the same as leading a reckless life. We do not exist in isolation, and the preciousness
of life belongs to all. And there are as many different lives as there are as
many different humans – and so it was, in my own way, I had reached the end of
another Antarctic summer with a full heart and a head full of new dreams for what
lay beyond.
|
Chilling out on the ramp after the last ride of the season. (Photo credit: W. Thursfield) |