Headwinds, Soggy Pants & Hot Showers

So, to the last leg of our journey. We descended from the Crask Inn towards the coast at Bettyhill.  The weather forecast for today was dire but I was hoping that it would be proved wrong. The first part the journey was an easy descent but into a head/side wind which slowed things up considerably. The road then became lumpy and it started to rain; my hopes were dashed. I was left straggling behind the others, determined to conserve my battery for the more challenging climbs to come after first lunch.

After a long and steep climb I arrived at Bettyhill, wet and cold as the rain was now persistent. I ate first lunch in the car trying to keep warm. The leg between first and second lunch was very tough. The rain hammered down and we battled against a head wind of 22 mph, gusting to 35 mph. We eventually struggled on to second lunch at Thurso, some twenty miles from John O’ Groats. I sat shivering in the car almost unable to hold a cup of black coffee. It would have been easy and perhaps sensible to give up at this point but we were all determined to finish the course. So, I put on another layer of clothing and set off.

Scott and I rode together the last few miles to the end and I was very glad of his company.  When we got to John O’ Groats the five of us lined up as in previous years and rode the last two hundred yards together to the end of our journey. As the rain continued to hammer down, we took some quick photos and then cycled back to our hotel where I spent twenty minutes in a hot shower trying to warm up.  As I undressed in order to get in the shower, the thought of which, along with Scott’s company and support, had kept me going, I discovered that I was soaked to the skin. Not only that, certain, let me say, more delicate parts of my anatomy, had been rubbing on my soggy pants.  I did not realise the full extent of the damage until the scolding hot water hit.  Hopefully, nobody could hear my cries of pain and expletives, through the shower door.

After everyone had showered and got into dry clothing we met in our room for a celebratory scotch, something we normally did at the finish line but on this occasion, wind and rain stopped play, so to speak. We then proceeded to the hotel restaurant for a celebration meal and awards. I got an award for my dogged determination.  I also announced my retirement from long distance cycling (maybe).

On Saturday 10^th August, we started the journey home. We decided to do this in two parts this time, instead of all in one go, as in previous years. So, we drove from John O’ Groats to Carlisle and stayed the night in a B and B.  On arrival went out for a pub meal.  This proved more challenging that we imagined it would be, as the road where all the eateries were was packed with customers. Eventually we found a place which served good beer and pizza.  However, the service was terribly slow and the music appallingly loud.  The younger element kept looking at me with worried glances.  I guess they were wondering if Fr Grumpy would start holding forth.  I didn’t.  I was somewhat moved by their concern for my wellbeing, something which was manifest throughout our ride and for which I was truly grateful.

The next day we undertook the final part of the journey home.  We stopped at Warwick Service Station for a late lunch and bad farewell to the Garretts. We arrived home at around 5pm.  In the evening we went to the Pheasant for supper with Adam and then chilled in front of the TV.

LEJOG 2019 was by far the toughest of the three times we have ridden this epic journey, which takes in the entire length of the British Isles.  We cooked in the heat down south and froze in the Northern headwinds and driving rain.  The adversity, however, made the accomplishment all the more, I won’t say enjoyable, but rather fulfilling, much was demanded of all of us.  So, here endeth the third and definitely final LEJOG adventure but maybe not the last cycling adventure.  We’ve done “End to End”, what about “Side to Side”?

Prayers. Midges and Whisky

The penultimate day of our adventure, and the weather was, on the whole, kind to us all day.  There was no sign of rain but we did have to contend with a headwind for much of the day. However, on the upside we cycled through some glorious scenery.  Compared with other days, the distance was not so great but there were some very significant and long climbs. Nothing too steep but the climb from Bonar Bridge to the Crask Inn, around twenty-five miles averaged out at about 5% and, from my point of view, knackered both battery and rider.

Talking of Bonar Bridge, there were two significant things of note when we stopped there for second lunch.  The first was the fact that the car park, which is situated beside the Dornoch Firth, just before you cross over and start the last part of the day’s ride, houses the most revolting toilet block I have ever come across.  It is truly revolting!  The best way of dealing with it is to take a deep breath before you enter and try to hold it for as long as possible before you are exposed to the foul air inside, which clings to the building like some vile poisonous fog.

By total contrast, the second memorable thing (to me at least) was the fact that, standing waist deep in the fast-flowing waters of the river, there were a number of anglers fly fishing with double handed rods.  I watched them eagerly whilst munching on my lunchtime rolls. Their quarry, I guess, were sea trout or maybe salmon.  I watched with envy their rhythmic casting.  I have caught a good number of rainbow and brown trout fly fishing but never the kind of fish these guys were after.  A successful angler walked through the car park carrying a sizable sea trout.  My envy level went up a couple of notches.  Another thing to at to my “Bucket List”.

After second lunch, we crossed Bonar Bridge and headed up into the hills towards our isolated stop for the night at the Crask Inn.  The views that one gets on this wild part of the ride have changed considerably since we first past that way two LEJOGs ago.  Back in 2013 a great deal of the land, which had been given over to be a pine tree plantation, had been stripped, leaving the countryside looking like some nightmare vision of a WW1 battle field with twisted stumps of tree roots and little else.  Now we found it completely transformed.  Removing the tightly packed pine trees, which blocked out any sunlight from the forest floor, causing it to be sterile of any other vegetation, had enabled a veritable resurgence of plant life and small indigenous trees.  The whole vista was transformed for the better.

When we arrived at the Crask Inn we were just in time for Evening Prayer, which was a lovely blessing at the end of a hard day. The Crask Inn is now run by the Episcopal Church of Scotland and serves as both a place of hospitality and also of prayer. At the service we were reacquainted with Kai, the elderly woman, who with her husband, used to run the place and now lives in the newly constituted Bunk House, where we stayed the last couple times we did LEJOG.  Another addition to the property was a large storage shed built next to the pub.  It was there I charged up my Ribble, which I will certainly need for the last leg of the journey tomorrow, as there is quite a lot of climbing involved in the latter part of the day’s ride.

As far as today’s ride was concerned the major problem was not the climbing nor the headwind but the ubiquitous midges, which attack you the minute you stop. These little buggers seem to be able to get you through your clothing.  If you can get above around 10mph you leave them behind, drop much below that and you get eaten alive.  However, once ensconced in the Crask Inn we left our tiny attackers outside and enjoyed a good meal, some excellent beer and even better whisky.  We forgot the midges and tried not to think about the weather forecast for tomorrow, which was not good!

General Wade’s Folly

Wednesday 7^th August dawned, the 12^th stage of our pilgrimage north.  What can we say about today’s cycling?  Something along these lines, in fact I think I did actually say this at the time; “I like a laugh and a joke but a Pantomime in August is a bit much”.  Another comment I do remember saying was, “well this is a whole crock of shit”. The reason for such an assessment was that periodically during the day, the heavens opened and it pissed down with rain; not at all enjoyable.  On our journey, we had gone from one extreme in the South, sweltering heat, to wet and cold in the North.  Ah well, that’s long distance cycling for you, in the UK.

On the way out of Glencoe there was a bit of a cycle path starting at Ballachulish and ending at North Ballachulish which was, at best, indifferent and then we got on the A82 to Fort William.  A road with wonderful views across Loch Eil.  By now the rain had eased and we could see across the loch. It was flat and easy to ride but narrow and with all the dangers of coaches and lorries heading for Fort William.  Once in Fort William the rain started up again.  We pressed on, turning off the A830 which took us out of Fort William and we headed up some minor roads and the climbing started, but nothing compared with what lay ahead.

Fifty miles of cycling brought us to another fort, this time Fort Augustus, via Laggan Locks, where we caught sight of The Caledonian Canal.  This is a wonderful example of 19^th Century engineering, designed by Thomas Telford. Now the fun began.  Just outside Fort Augustus lies the start of General Wade’s Military Road.  I’m not sure if the good General had time on his hands and needed to keep his troops employed, hence he employed them as road builders, what I am sure of is that he chose a bloody silly way to get to Inverness.  There is a flat route along the banks of Loch Ness.  Perhaps there was no road that way in his day, or perhaps he studied Roman road building, i.e., go in a straight line no matter what you have to go over.  We, like him, chose the silly route.

Let me tell you some more things about General Wade’s Military Road.  It is the longest single climb on LEJOG, around five miles and parts of it have a gradient of 15%.  It is therefore quite demanding at the best of times.  These were not the best of times, for about half way up the ascent the heavens opened to such an extent that it was hard to see exactly where you were going.  The first LEJOG I had to walk up the steepest parts of the climb.  The second LEJOG, I actually managed to make it all the way up without dismounting.  This was in part achieved by zig-zagging across the road to reduce the gradient of the steepest sections, whilst keeping an ear open for cars.  This time, aided by my trusty Ribble, I managed to get up the climb in second, but nearly knackered the battery on my bike in the process.

At the top of the climb we stopped to eat and fuel up for the last part of the day which involved a steep descent, in wet conditions, through Whitebridge and then a gentle climb up and beyond Torness.  Another steep descent followed through Dorres and then some lumpy riding which brought us to the outskirts of Inverness.

At eighty-three miles, it was a long and hard day’s riding without the complication of the rain. The upside was that Scott managed a whole day’s cycling without recourse to a cycle repair shop. Ollie’s repair work from the previous evening held.  In the latter part of the ride the heavy rain had brought down a considerable amount of mud and stones onto the road which made for rather dangerous conditions. All in all, we were very glad to make it to the Youth Hostel in Inverness. Ollie worked his magic once more on the very dirty bikes and Julia and Mary cooked up dirty rice (tastier than it sounds!), followed by fruit tarts with custard. After a hot shower and a good meal, I started to feel human again. What, I wonder, will tomorrow, the penultimate day’s riding, bring? Not more of the same, I hope. We had been sorely tested but not been found wanting.  “Anyone seen the weather forecast?”

Rubadubdub, Four in the Tub.

I had a very good night’s sleep, probably aided by the hearty meal and several Scotches last evening.  The gastronomic delights continued in the morning with a really good full English breakfast, so we were all fuelled up and ready to go and got underway around 8.45am.

The first fifteen miles of the route consisted of some long climbs. Nothing particularly steep but somewhat unremitting. Gradually the terrain flatted out. It had rained overnight, so we feared the worst, but as we set off it was merely cloudy and as the day wore on the weather got more and more sunny albeit with a strong breeze.

The countryside also improved with some pleasant cycling, a considerable improvement on yesterday’s rather dire boring slog.  Eventually after second lunch we came to a path leading us alongside the River Clyde.  Whilst cycling along the Clyde I wondered what the fishing might be like when I came upon a lad who had just caught a roach of about half a pound in weight, so that answered that question, at least in part.  Water and its piscatorial contents have fascinated me ever since I was a boy.  However, this has given rise to a joke, I use the word loosely, among certain members of the Tadworth Massive, when we are out together.  Whenever we pass a stretch of water they say, “do you think there are any carp in there, Mick?” (Apparently this is something I regularly ask whenever we pass a stretch of water – can’t say I’ve noticed that myself!)

This route along the Clyde enabled us to more or less bypass Glasgow.  Julia and Mary were not so fortunate and had to plough through the city centre, albeit on a motorway.  There was a little bit of urban cycling on the very edge of Glasgow city centre and then a bit of the accompanying urban sprawl before we turned onto a canal towpath for some more flat and pleasant cycling.

Eventually, we came to the last part of the day’s ride, again a pleasant part of the route along the river Leven with anglers waist deep in the fast-flowing waters fly fishing, presumably for sea trout or salmon.  Not really a carp water, chub and barbel most likely, chaps.  I digress.

Scott suffered a puncture on the last leg of the day and Lizzie suffered two, all self-induced as they attempted to jump up curbs and failed. The outcome of this failed attempt was they smashed into the curb at speed and even the toughest tyre can’t withstand that kind of punishment: no doubt a case of pinched inner tube. Lizzie blamed her abortive attempt at a jump on the corpse of a dead pigeon beside the road.  Well I’ve heard some excuses, but really!

Eventually, we arrived at our B and B which turned out to be a real winner.  When planning the overnight stops Julia decided not to plump for the Loch Lomond Youth Hostel where we had stayed on the two previous LEJOGs as it involved a long and uncomfortable drive along a dirt road and the ever-present danger of being eaten alive by midges.  So, she decided to take a punt on a B & B just on the outskirts of Balloch, about a quarter mile from where the day’s ride ended.   The support team were in ecstasies over the laundry facilities, whilst we cyclists could hardly believe our eyes when we discovered that there was a hot tub in the garden. Oh, bliss!  The day’s ride had been a long one, some eighty-five miles but once in the tub, with a beer in my hand, my legs revived a treat.  Likewise, my hunger was also alleviated, when we were eventually persuaded to exit the tub, and presented with a hearty beef pie provided by our gallant support team.

When all was said and done a great start to the day, a pleasant ride for the most part and an even better end.  What will tomorrow hold for the intrepid cyclists?  You will find out (or if you were a member of the team be reminded) in the next post.

Reunited

To borrow an expression normally applied to a game of football, today was a day of “two halves” and no mistake. After a gentle ride out of Keswick the road kicked up and the first part of the day consisted of some strenuous climbing for around ten miles until it transformed into a long but bumpy descent into Carlisle. The upside of the morning was that the  scenery was fantastic as we passed eventually cycled out of the Lake District.

Scott’s bike gave up the ghost once again and Julia had to pick him up and deliver him to Mary, who took him to a bike shop in Carlisle where, this time, a new chain was fitted. He joined the group at first lunch, which was held at a small church just outside Carlisle. Julia met up with the same vicar who had blessed us on our way four years earlier, however he had gone before the group arrived.  So, no blessing for us this time.

After first lunch Scott and I went on an unintended detour.  This came about because an Adam look alike some way in front of us turned right off the main road and I followed him until he disappeared from view.  We checked the route and realised we had gone wrong but were able to get back on track fairly easily. However, my error resulted in us putting a few extra miles on the journey for Scott and I, which on a seventy-two-mile ride we could have done without.

As we entered Scotland, the second part of the day turned into a long, boring, gradual climb up to Moffat. For much of it there was a “so called” cycle path, but frankly, in my view, it is safer to ride, for the most part, in the road. The route basically followed the line of a motorway, which was extremely noisy and the scenery dull. It’s a necessary slog which gets you well into Scotland and from tomorrow onwards the views will gradually get more spectacular assuming that is that it doesn’t rain, in which case we won’t see much at all.

We discovered that Ollie was on our trail having caught a train from London to Carlisle, where he picked up his bike from Mary.

Early in the week Julia had been told that her mother, Sheila, who was terminally ill with cancer was not likely to live for more than a few days.  Whilst cycling along, around 2.45pm I suddenly became quite emotional thinking about Sheila and ended up praying that she may have a peaceful and pain free passing. When I arrived at second lunch Julia informed me that Shelia died around 3pm.  I felt that as a priest I could not give her the last rites but I could be with her, as it were, in spirit.  Jung held that the psyche was not bounded by time and space and this moving experience seemed to be one of those occasions when this reality became conscious.

Ollie the, “chiselled whippet”, caught up with us at second lunch.  It was good to have the team complete once more.

Prior to second lunch, one of the places we cycled through was a place called Ecclefechan, famed for it tarts (confectionery, rather than women of dubious morals).  On a previous trip, attempts were made to buy said tarts but none could be found.  When we got home, we discovered that they had all been sent south and Julia found them in Sainsbury’s in Hastings!  Ecclefechan reminded me some what of the League of Gentlemen, if you attempted to buy something you would be told, “this is a local shop.  There’s nothing for you here!”

After a long day of contrasting countryside, wonderful views and then grinding boredom, we finally arrived in Moffat.  We got ensconced in our very comfortable B and B, then after the early evening ritual of showers, protein drinks and plugging my bike in, we went and ate in the narrowest hotel in the world. Lovely food and friendly service. A nice end to strange day.

Divine Providence?

We had a great breakfast supplied as ever by Julia and Mary, after which we gather outside in the courtyard of the Youth Hostel to pump tyres to full pressure and generally make ready for the off.  And thus, it was that the first drama of the day unfolded before we could even hit the road.  Scott couldn’t find his cycling shoes and after much searching, accompanied by suitable Anglo-Saxon adjectives, came to the conclusion that he must have left them on the carpark wall at Whalley.  Two solutions to this dilemma presented themselves, either he would count his losses and go to the nearest cycle shop and buy a new pair (expensive), or Julia would drive back to Whalley to see, if by some slight chance, the shoes were still where he left them. In the event it was decided that Julia would drive back to Whalley, where we had second lunch yesterday.  This she did and found them on a wall where Scott had left them. In the meantime, Adam, Lizzie and myself set off on some tough climbing over the Yorkshire Dales.  The pain in our legs compensated for by incredible open vistas illuminated by bright sunlight.  Marvellous.

The next drama involved Lizzie, who got a puncture when we were in the middle of nowhere.  She had a spare inner tube but none of us had a pump (foolish).  Two days of near fatal amnesia seemed to have gripped the whole team, not just Scott.  Julia relayed to me after we met up later that day that she had prayed and sang hymns loudly as she drove back to Whalley that Scott’s shoes would still be there.  Now it was my turn to cast the three of us on the Lord’s providential mercy.  About five minutes after the puncture caused us to grind to a halt, three cyclists rolled up and saved the day. They replaced the inner tube and re inflated her back tyre, so we were able to press on.  Now some sceptics might say that this was just a lucky coincidence; I, along with my mentor, Carl Jung, do not believe in coincidences.  Or put another way, it amazes me how often it is, that I pray and so called “coincidences” happen.

Eventually we passed through the village of Wray, which marks the halfway point in our journey; and “there was much rejoicing in the land” (Monty Python and the Holy Grail).  There is something about getting beyond the halfway point in a long ride which bolsters one’s confidence and belief that the goal will  eventually be accomplished even though there is still a long way to go. Scott was back with us, having been reunited with his cycling shoes but the heat of the sun was rising minute by minute and so his chances of making it to the end of the day’s ride were slim.

We journeyed on until we came into the glorious beauty of the Lake District.  A friend of mine from Croydon Folk Club, Nick Marshall, who had retired to Ambleside, was at the roadside to meet me, along with his wife.  I stopped for a brief chat and he gave me a contribution for our worthy cause (Cancer Research) before wishing the me well as I rode out of town.

The last significant challenge of the day, Dunmail Raise, soon loomed into view.  For a cyclist the word “Raise” suggests a gentle incline, however Dunmail Raise is anything but; it is long, steep climb up a dual carriageway with traffic thundering past.  Not pleasant riding at all.  The upside after this final climb of the day was a ten-mile descent into Keswick, our destination.

So it was that we arrived in Keswick after a long and hard day’s cycling. We found the Youth Hostel much improved since we were last there due to a complete refit after a flood in the latter part of 2015. Julia and Mary cooked Chinese chicken and vegetable stir fry. We then ended the day playing “Hum and Strum” at which I am useless, Julia won.

When is a Forest Not a Forest?

The afternoon ride was a complete and utter contrast to that of the morning’s ride with its urban ugliness.  Some of the most beautiful scenery of the whole trip was about to open up after second lunch.  However, prior to that we hit a nasty manmade challenge as we approached the small town of Whalley.  Two sections of the road were being resurfaced and so we were faced with a mixture of hot tar and sharp granite chippings, a lethal combination for the tyres of a racing bike.  The tar stuck to the rubber of our bike wheels and the chippings stuck to the tar.  We knew it was just a matter of time before we would be plagued with multiple punctures.  Scott and I, who were riding together, tried to manage this danger by stopping regularly and sweeping the chippings off our tyres but in reality, we had little success.  As soon as we mounted again, within seconds, the tar and grit were caked on our tyres again.  In the end, for safety’s sake, we dismounted and pushed our bikes until we reached Whalley; fortunately, not too far.  A bit annoying however, that a manmade difficulty caused me to walk half a mile or so when the hardest of hills had not defeated me.  I spent a considerable amount of time, after we had eaten, cleaning all the detritus off my tyres in the hope that I wouldn’t get a puncture.  I must have done a reasonable job because I didn’t get one.  Scott decided to abandon the afternoon ride as it was too hot for him.  He put his cycling shoes on a wall in the Whalley car park whilst we had lunch.  Mistake, big mistake!

After second lunch, once we were out of Whalley, the ride brought us to the exquisite panoramas of “The Forest of Boland”.  Now, you might be tempted to question the use of the word “panorama” in relationship to a “forest”, as often in a forest, “you can’t see the wood for the trees”.  “The Forest of Boland” is one of those anomalies of the English language where you use one word to describe something which is the complete opposite of the normal meaning of that word, e.g. “that meal was wicked”, when what you actually mean is, “that meal was very good”.  Or, when you go to a football match you “sit” in the “stands”.  The reason why the “Forest of Boland” fits this category is the fact that it actually has very few trees, a prerequisite of a forest, even a wood, I would have thought.  Of course, I am aware that at one time, when I were a lad in fact, you did stand on the terraces at a footie match whereas now you sit.  So, perhaps our forest did have trees at one time but now has but a few.

As I mentioned in my last blog, Lizzie was doing a great job steering us towards our goal for the day, Slaidburn Youth Hostel, that is until Adam decided to go shooting off like Geraint Thomas attacking in the Tour de France.  He past her and at breakneck speed disappearing over the brow of a low hill, where he was subsequently lost from sight.  The upshot of this was, he missed a righthand turn that would take us over the most spectacular vistas of the day.  Lizzie, taking her responsibilities as leader of the pack seriously, had to ride him down and bring him back up a considerable ascent to where I was waiting for them, quietly muttering to myself, “bloody boy racer!”

Once Lizzie had retrieved Adam, we all got back on the right track and together ended the day’s ride in Slaidburn.  Now it has to be said that Slaidburn Youth Hostel is the creakiest building in all England. When people are moving about inside the building it feels a bit like I imagine it would feel if you were on a Ship of the Line, sailing with Lord Nelson.  Having showered and downed a pint of protein drink, I walked across the road to the “Hark to Bounty” pub where I reacquainted myself with, “Theakston’s Old Peculiar”, a beer I have not tasted in the last four years, in fact not since the last LEJOG.  A couple of pints of that certainly got rid of the foul taste of the chocolate flavoured protein beverage I had previously downed.

The group returned to our creaking night’s refuge, where Julia and Mary cooked Chilli for supper; “a great big plate of yum” as Greg Wallace would say.  After supper the group split up for the evening, some went back to the pub for another session and some like me, tempted though I was, went to bed.

Oop North!

I would not describe myself as a “sun worshipper” but I am one of those people who seems to get an instant suntan and is not often troubled by sun burn.  In fact, I seem to get something of a tan if I go out in a strong wind: strange!  I am however sensible, particularly when cycling, and smother myself in sun screen on days when the bright rays of the sun seem to hit the tarmac and come relentlessly back at you.  For the most part, thus far on our journey north, the weather had been kind to those of us who can take the sun.  This was not true for Scott, who found the very hot days impossible.  He was unable to drink enough water to keep himself hydrated and if he applied copious amount of factor 50, the upshot was it melted off his face and ran into his eyes all but blinding him.  Thus, it was today he sat out the last section of the day’s ride which was a pity, as it was the most picturesque, taking the intrepid group through the Forest of Boland.

However, before we got onto that part of the day’s ride and whilst the sun had temporarily hidden itself behind some high clouds, we had some northern urban cycling to negotiate.  I had some horrendous memories from previous trips of the very busy route out of Runcorn.  One of the main roads, as I recalled, was a feeder road for a motorway and trying to ride across the very speedy oncoming traffic was, for me, a nightmare.  I confessed my fears to the others and Scott came up with an ingenious scheme for getting the old boy safely across the flood of impatient motorists, whose aggressive hooting had reduced me to a nervous wreck last time I came this way.  He had noticed that I was hesitant when cycling onto roundabouts and thus missed opportunities to get round quickly.  So, he suggested that the rest of the team surrounded me and that I concentrated, not on the traffic, but on the back wheel of the rider directly in front of me.  On the command “go”, we set off.  This worked brilliantly on several roundabouts.  However, the initial roundabout which had concerned me most, had changed out of all recognition when we tackled it.  Helpfully, traffic lights had been installed and so getting round it was actually a piece of cake.  That said, I had to admire and be extremely thankful to Scott for his accurate reading of my problem and for coming up with a very practical solution.  So, thanks Scott.

We cycled through a series of northern towns, Warrington, Bolton, Blackburn being the chief among them.  Two things I noticed about these towns.  Firstly, the sun had come out from behind its cloudy hiding place by the time we got to Warrington and the towns did not look as grim as I remembered them from previous trips.  Secondly, on the first LEJOG, I had noticed the proliferation of “Food Banks” in these conurbations and thought of them as part of the North/South divide.  This time round I had to revise my thoughts, as the “Food Bank” at my home church of St Matthew’s, Redhill, is being increasingly used as the months of austerity rolled, apparently endlessly, on.

Riding through the aforementioned towns was, for the most part, easy and flat.  In between the urban cycling there was some stunning scenery accompanied by some challenging climbing.  Ollie, who had been our chief navigator, left us at Bolton where he caught a train to London in order to attend the wedding of a great friend of his. Lizzie took over the task of navigator and did a great job.  We stopped to fuel up at Bob’s Smithy Inn.  I volunteered to go in and buy a drink to legitimise our use of the carpark for the lunch stop.  Well, someone had to take one for the team and as its eldest member I felt I had to lead by example.  I dared not admit this supreme self-sacrifice at the time however for fear of being told that I was full of something brown and rather smelly!

 

 

A Little Bit of R & R

Today’s ride was going to be a long one, Clun to Runcorn, a distance of some 81 miles. Because of this we were up early, fuelled up with a good breakfast and on the road by around around 8.45pm.

The first part of the day involved a great deal of climbing and descending which started with a lethal descent down a farm track; a bit of rural nastiness that I’d forgotten.  There was no excuse for this as I had come down this bone rattling lane, one could hardly call it a road, twice before.  Along with one or two other parts of the route from Land’s End to John O’ Groats that we had previously modified, we should have removed this short cut and gone round the main road out of Clun.  Our bikes were definitely not designed for this kind of punishment.  It would have been great fun on a mountain bike but was almost lethal on a light weight racing bike.

Later in the day, a rather more pleasant descent took us through the picturesque Hope Valley. The others belted down this descent as if they were on one of the alpine runs of the Tour de France.  I went at a more leisurely pace.  Anything over 30mph and the chances are I would need to change my cycling shorts at the bottom of the climb.  Beside the effect such high speeds might have on my ability to control certain parts of my anatomy, I rather liked to enjoy the beauty of the countryside, not have my eye glued to the road looking for potholes or other obstacles which might flip me off my bike.  This downhill section of the day’s ride ended at the village of Minsterley.  Two miles after that at the village of Pontesbury we headed off towards Shrewsbury.

A few years previously Julia and I spent a pleasant few days in a hotel just outside Shrewsbury in what had been a school for the blind.  Perhaps its most famous ex pupil was the Labour Politician David Blunket.  Shrewsbury is a lovely town to spend a few days wandering round but what stands out about this short break was nothing to do with historic buildings and pleasant pubs.  We were about to leave to head home and whilst we sat in the car in the car park Julia totted up the bill for our stay.  She noticed that the hotel had not charged us for a bottle of wine and the cheese course we had consumed during a meal in the hotel restaurant.  Being honest sorts, we trudged back to the reception desk and pointed this error out to the receptionist and said we wanted to pay what we owed.  Forty minutes later we were still standing there and rather wishing that we hadn’t bothered and, if you will excuse an awful pun, “turned a blind eye” to the mistake, which was after all in our favour.

Shrewsbury is a very small town and we were soon through it, crossing the river Severn at Welsh Bridge.  Just past the bridge there is a huge modern sculpture called Quantum Leap, evoking images of a double helix.  This biological reality which lies at the heart of the Evolutionary Process had been created to celebrate Darwin’s bi-centenary.

The rest of the day’s cycling, although long, was comparatively flat and not that inspiring aesthetically.  I used the motor on my bike sparingly during the first part of the day but kept it on all the latter part of the day as I had plenty of battery left. This enabled me to keep up with the others, not something I normally accomplished.

It was a lengthy day but due to the relatively flat nature of the route we did it quite quickly averaging around 12mph.  Our destination was The Holiday Inn at Runcorn.  Not having any rest days on our journey north The Holiday Inn was a concession to pure luxury.  A swimming pool, and a jacuzzi to ease our sore legs and a great meal in the hotel restaurant.  I had a mixed grill and amazed myself that I managed to eat that much grub at one sitting as my appetite is not what it used to be when I was much younger.  And so, to bed, bliss, utter bliss.

 

 

The Big Push

And so, we approached the final challenge of the day Pentre Hodre.  I knew this was going to be one of the major climbing tests for a seventy-year-old cyclist and the bike which Lizzie named “Miss Ribble”.  What I had not reckoned with was that this time round it would prove to be a navigational test as well.  This navigational challenge manifested itself in two ways.  Firstly, Scott got lost on the way from second lunch to the climb and Ollie had to go back in search of him.  Secondly, I took a wrong turn half way up and seemed to end up finding the steepest route possible to the summit.

Scott and Ollie were somewhere behind me and nowhere near attempting the climb when I turned onto the dreaded hill.  Lizzie and Adam were ahead of me.  I managed the first steep section of the climb with consummate ease which was a great boost to my confidence.  I could see Adam in front of me and was gradually gaining on him when I was ground to a halt by a woman in a car descending the hill who wasn’t going to give an inch or stop to let me pass.  I was forced to the side of the road and came to an untimely halt.  Some rather un clerical words were uttered as she passed me by at speed.  Pity she couldn’t hear them. Consequently, I had a job getting going again as I was still on a steep part of the ascent but fortunately managed it.  In the meantime, I had lost sight of Adam.   I came to a fork in the road, didn’t notice the sign which pointed left to Pentre Hodre Farm and, as a consequence, went straight on.  I kept climbing but realised after a while that I didn’t recognise anything on the road.  I stopped and asked two people if I could get to Clun via the road I was on.  Neither of them seemed to know where Clun was which struck me as rather strange as it couldn’t have been more than a few miles away.

Rather than go back and try and find the right turning, as the road was ascending and seemed to be nearing the summit, I decided to press on.  This was a wise decision and I realised later that the route had taken me in a loop which eventually enabled me to re-join the actual route just before the summit.  However, the last few hundred yards before the summit the road really kicked up and I was struggling as was the motor on my e bike.  Every time my foot passed the motor, I could feel the heat coming off it and was worried that it might well seize up.  In order to alleviate this, I wove from one side of the road to the other to lessen the gradient.  The road was very narrow and unfortunately, I hit the bank and once again ground to a halt and was faced with a standing start.  After a considerable struggle I managed to get going again. This part of the climb was very steep, in fact steeper than the route I should have been on.  Just as the top on the ascent hove into view and I was about to join the prescribed route, I saw Lizzie just in front of me. This was something of a relief as I was now confident that I was once more on the right road. I caught her up and we rode together to the view point at the top of Pentre Hodre. The intention was to wait for Scott and Ollie.

After various phone calls we found the Adam had already made it to the pub in Clun, Ollie had found Scott and was doing the climb.  Lizzie and I were getting extremely cold as we waited and so it was decided that we would descend to Clun and met up with Adam, Julia, Mary and a couple of former parishioners who had retired to Clun. Eventually Ollie and Scott arrived and we all had a drink together before ending up at the Youth Hostel for a little bike maintenance and a well-earned pasta meal.