After working until midnight on Friday night, I wasn't feeling up to a big bike ride on Saturday morning, so I bimbled around Hartland Moor, eventually making my way to the hide at Middlebere over high tide. It was pretty quiet though the Avocet flock was building up nicely to over 250 birds, half a dozen Spotted Redshank and a Great White Egret were nice to see, and passing Marsh Harriers and Hobbies kept everything on its toes.
As I was making myself comfortable in the hide, news broke of a Red-breasted Flycatcher on Portland. I'd not seen this species travelling under my own steam before, but even the lure of a 'bike tick' - my first since Pom Skua on 4 May - was not enough to stir me from my pew in the hide. I considered the distance, the effort required to push through the gusty wind, and the fact that I had gone in the wrong direction from home for Portland anyway and put it from my mind.
An hour later and things weren't picking up at Middlebere so I contemplated returning home for lunch. Then my wife dropped me a line to say that she was out for the evening, and I knew my son was working, so I would be 'home alone'. The thought occurred that, without anything to rush back for, maybe I *could* still make it to Portland and back to see the Flycatcher? I packed the bike and headed home, quickening my pace as it dawned that I would need to get a shift on if I was to have much time looking for the bird before dark.
Arriving home at 1330, I quickly ditched the telescope and other extraneous luggage so I could travel a bit lighter and announced the plan to the family. At this point a snag appeared: unbeknown to me, Claire had ordered a shopping delivery which was due to arrive at 1930 and, with her new plan to go out, I, she asserted, needed to be back by then which would leave barely enough time to get to Portland and back, especially if the bird didn't show immediately. Needless to say, I had a different perspective on things, as my weekly routine now involves an early start on Mondays thanks to a new job, and Saturdays are the only day I can realistically get out for a long bike ride. So I didn't appreciate this opportunity being compromised by the need to await the delivery of over-priced sundries from Ocado.
A brief but impressively blazing row ensued which ended with me walking out with the realisation that (i) I was not going to win the argument and (ii) time was of the essence. I hit the road at 1341 and the first 11 miles of the journey on a westerly track, aided by a stiff SE breeze, were completed in 50 mins compared to my usual hour. This was a good pace, and although the wind slowed it marginally as I turned south towards Weymouth, I still made good time such that when I hit the seafront I was 15 mins ahead of schedule against my original estimated time of arrival at 1600. This was the latest I could afford to arrive realistically, giving me a maximum of 30 mins to look for the bird whilst still leaving the 3 hrs I would need to get home. Even that was significantly less time than I would normally allow for the journey back from Portland so it was all a bit, well, tight.
Unfortunately the weather wasn't on board with my plans and the challenge of meeting my ambitious timeline increased as I hit Ferrybridge. The wind was now howling into my face, and I could barely manage 7mph as I battled south along the Chesil. Reaching the base of the daunting climb up on to Portland, and conscious of how much that last stretch had taken out of my legs, I took the unusual step of dismounting to push the bike up the steepest stretch. This was a big mistake, as the change of muscles caused my left quad to twitch and burn until it felt like it was about to explode. Then my right quad did the same, followed by my right calf as the muscles cramped. I took a breather - the first stop in 23 miles since home, fearful that I might not make it at all, and with some gentle stretching, the quads eventually stopped screaming and I was able to gingerly complete the ascent of the north face of Portland.
The remaining couple of miles to Culverwell were mercifully downhill, but with the rigours of the last 6 miles I had lost time and arrived as per my original forecast of 1600. A small gathering of toggers indicated where I needed to be and Pete Coe, who was among them, assured me that the bird was still present. 10 tense minutes later I noticed something flitting in the deep cover to our left at ground level - I raised my bins and there was the impossibly cute visage of a Red-breasted Flycatcher. Although the sun had gone in by this point, it at least made its way out of the shadows, never quite in the open but clear enough to enable a few passable record shots. I was elated, but there was no time for celebration and the sobering thought hit me that the journey was only 50% complete.
By the time I had packed camera and readied the bike again it was 1620 and I was confident enough of my ability to make it back in time to send a message home to that effect. It received a cursory 'thumbs up' response which is as close as we get to kissing and making up after 22 years of marriage, so I hit the road more confident than I left that the locks would not have been changed by the time I arrived home.
The wind which had proven such a handicap at Ferrybridge was now a huge asset to the northward part of the return journey and, after breaking the 30mph barrier on the way down off Portland, I positively sailed to Ferrybridge, up the Rodwell Trail and along Weymouth seafront, stopping only to top up both empty water bottles from the free beach refill stations - a godsend to the weary long-distance cyclist.
Things inevitably slowed a bit as I headed NE on the long climb up out of Weymouth, and the last 11 miles were back into the wind - though fortunately it was significantly be-calmed compared to its strength at the coast. Even so, with over 60 miles in my legs for the day by this point, I was really feeling it, and only the knowledge that I couldn't 'tick' the RB Fly until I had completed the journey kept me going.
Two miles out from home and a text arrived: 'Ocado man is outside, can he come early?'. My turn for a curt reply: 'No, 10 mins away'. I said I would be back by 1930 and, mechanical disasters aside, I knew I was going to be - just. At 1920 I was knocking on said Ocado man's window to let him know I was back. I had completed the 52 mile round trip in 5hrs 39 mins, including 20 mins on site looking for the bird. After I filled the delivery driver in on the backstory he was unnecessarily apologetic about making me rush home but all's well that ends well - he got away a bit early, Claire got her evening out and I had the deep satisfaction of finally adding Red-breasted Flycatcher to the non-motorised life and year lists.
That brought the year list to 198 - a very poor year considering I have reached 200 before the end of August in each of the previous three years, but, as yesterday's exertions suggest, lack of effort is not the explanation so much as lack of birds. Still, there is plenty of autumn left and with a late spurt or a cold snap, a few more year ticks may yet be on the cards. If they are, they will do well to match up to the RB Fly for charm and character - always such a lovely bird to see - not to mention the time pressure under which it was seen!
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