Havingdecided to volunteer on a project in Africa, Ineeded to fundraise £4,000 to get out there. I confidently settled on my “originaland challenging” charity stunt of cycling 150 miles to my gran’s house. The finaldestination was purely for somewhere to aim. This was a valiant project becauseat this point in my life I was no cyclist. And had no bike. The only cyclingI’d done was on a rusty Triumph with rod brakes and three gears. Strangely I wasn’tput off by these fairly major threats to my bravado.
Atthe time I didn’t fully appreciate it, but my most useful preparation was tomanipulate my cycling friend Zeb into doing this as well. He borrowed a‘proper’ road bike for me, then I had to learn to use the 27 gears and thefunny clip pedals which I was assured were helpful. In one ‘lesson’ I foundmyself in too high a gear slowly sliding backwards down a steep hill into oncomingtraffic with my feet stuck.
And then there was the distance issue. One practiceride of 30 miles brought home the reality of my challenge: “But I can’t pullout now – I’ve received huge cheques.” The sinking feeling that I might notcomplete this washed over me. Little did I know that this first foray would bethe start of many cycling adventures to come.
Ona January morning, I crawl out of bed at 6.30am to less than optimal conditions:the sky looks like wet aluminium, there are high winds and driving rain. Thisdampens my already flagging enthusiasm; I’m cold and not sure that I fancy eighthours of constant pedalling. I force in some porridge before setting off at 7.30am.This is a less than auspicious start. No flag waving – just my mum.
Therearen’t many cars around, which is slightly eerie. We warm up on undulatinghills passing through sleepy villages; I enjoy this despite the weather and myusual morning grump. Also, my backside is bearing up well. Strong wind reallyis the enemy of cyclists, but perversely our strategy is to head west intothe wind towards Banbury because right now we should be fresh and capable.
Thisquickly becomes tiresome; it’s a long, grinding, featureless straight road andthe rain’s needles are hitting me directly in the face. On the plus side, we’vemade good time and the support team (my dad) is waiting at the garage with teaand sandwiches. Now off the bike, I realise how sodden I am and quickly get cold.Zeb’s suffering from chaffed inner thighs, so he throws off his clothing anddollops Vaseline over them, much to the bemusement of people filling up withpetrol nearby.
Headingnorth out of Banbury the crosswind makes things easier and the next 30 miles arecomparatively comfortable. Things feel positive; there are no problems and I’vegot some energy thanks to the fruity, chemical drink that’s strapped to myback. So we try to travel as far as possible and pedal into the darkness, eventuallygrinding to a halt in Burton-on-Trent.After 90 miles, I'm incapable of speaking and communicate only with a range ofgrunts.
Unfortunatelythere is a dearth of B&Bs in this town. After prolonged cruising in the carwith patience long since departed, we check into a small ‘hotel’. Despite itbeing winter, there’s no heating in the bathroom. I still want to treat my buttcheeks to a hot soak, but there’s only tepid water dribbling out and the bath’snot grouted. As I sit in a chilly two-inch puddle, I notice the peeled paintdangling from the walls by cobwebs and that the toilet seat is hanging loose. Inthe bedroom, my wardrobe is two wire hangers suspended on the dado rail.
Meanwhilethe lock on Dad’s room breaks, with the door shut and him on the outside. Uponinspection, the landlord decides that clearly the only sensible option is tokick the door down. Considering the facilities, we choose to eat elsewhere. Atthis point, food is becoming an urgent priority, so we agree on the reliableoption of curry and beer. I then fall into a dribbling coma until 7am on Sunday.
It’sstill dark and Dad rudely shakes me from my death-like slumber and cajoles meback into the saddle. My legs are pretty stiff but just about moving. Howeversitting down has become unpleasant; my bottom bones are incredibly sore. The nextfive miles are probably the worst so far. We also encounter a range ofproblems.
Myknees are aching which makes progress slower. Stress sets in and Zeb and Istart swearing at each other. A loud silence reigns and depressingly, we onlycomplete 22 miles by midday. Along a quiet road near Uttoxeter, I deduce thatmy knees are aching because the saddle is too low, so we stop for adjustment.Unfortunately, the bolt holding it in place threads. Within minutes it startsraining and the phone signal disappears which means we can’t contact Dad forhelp. Our challenge threatens to collapse because of one small bolt.
Armsflap and the swearing gets creative while Zeb searches for a substitute boltfrom a “less necessary” part of the bike. A nearby farmer notes our distressand wanders over to offer assistance. He reminds us that we’re “daft buggers”for cycling in this weather and questions “what’s wrong wit' sex ont' suundaymornin’… yer gon' off it or summat?” For the first time in my life I havenothing to say. He disappears off, scrabbles around in his tractor and producesa rusty, bent bolt coated in cow shit. He flicks off the muck and says, “heretry this”.
Unbelievably, after a minor struggle, the bolt is fixed and we continueon our merry way. Thenext few hours pass smoothly; the northern rain persists and the hills getsteeper, but perversely we have a strange sense of enjoyment and relief aboutbeing able to continue. Our buoyant mood even prompts a verse or two of somehighbrow songs learnt at university: “She’s got a big fat, hairy **** twicethe size of me; hairs on her chest like the branches of a tree…”
Ikeep motivated by not contemplating how far I have to go. Just keep the pedals turningand focus on chasing Zeb in front of me. I never aim further than getting upthe hill ahead. I'm also entertained by finding new positions for my sorehands. Wescreech down the wet hills into Leek at a mildly terrifying 35mph; with the endin sight we happily speed alongside the picturesque Rudyard Lakeand heave up Gran’s driveway by 4pm.
Wearily, I get off my bike and experiencethat post-final-exam sensation, not of elation but “huhh. Well, I’ll get inthe bath then”. Gran brews us a nice cup of tea and while soaking my sore buttin piping hot water, a smile creeps over my face accompanied by a feeling of smugsatisfaction and sense of achievement. While relaxing, I slip into thinkingabout that map and its wiggly lines. Hmmm, I wonder how long it would take toride up to Scotland…
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