26 – Wreck on the Highway
Given our old mate Brent had nearly died on Day One of our first Jolly Boys outing the previous year, I thought it was a miracle we had persuaded him to do it one more time; it was a bit like coaxing another over from him as his career as a top bowler reached autumn time. But if you were wondering whether Brent had prepared better for this trip, well the answer was definitely not. Another winter on four packets of cheese and onion a day with Rick making late enquiries regarding tandem hire should a worst-case scenario ensue; we feared the worst.
Life had changed though since that inaugural trip in so many ways. JB had been transformed from introverted IT geek to designer clad gigolo – at least via George @ Asda – had bought an Audi TT and pulled a surgically enhanced, buxom, bronzed blonde with hair extensions. This only served to confuse the hell out of some of the first team who thought he had two on the go depending on which look and length she went for. In contrast, Rick’s only worry in life remained the availability of pork scratchings with his Tuesday pint and the odd occasion Mrs Lawrence looked like getting frisky.
The Bedstead – RIP
Saddest of all was that The Bedstead, my trusted and sturdy companion from the last trip, was not to make this one after protests from team Jolly Boys and a request from the industrial museum to house it; one of Raleigh’s finest was consigned to the back of the garage for an uncertain and rusty future. Having no time to buy a replacement and, in reality, thinking that another week on a bike with JB would surely lead to a broken neck, I decided to borrow a bike. And so it was that Rick lent me eldest son Sam’s bike – omitting to mention that of the 21 available gears only 3 actually worked.
Although the aim of our first trip was to raise funds to replace the club’s luxury portakabin we still looked no nearer a new clubhouse and the old one continued to look as if it might collapse at any time. Despite my claims to the Lottery officials that we were actually running several sexually diverse, multi-racial, disabled cricket teams from All Alone Road there was still no chance of a grant; the begging bowls were out again and our legs and backsides were about to suffer once more. Doubtless the club’s members would rally round – sweet dreams – so final preparations were made with JB ensuring he had a thousand free texts to get him through a week away from his new toy seemingly a lot more entranced with Looby Lou than any gadget.
Sunday – Farewell My Love
We met at Villas the morning of the trip expecting dozens of members, bunting and an emotional send off, yet despite appeals for sponsors being displayed for weeks, most people simply asked us why were dressed like we were; good to know the members were behind us once again. At least Lynton Marsden had turned up and we knew that he really wanted to be with us once he had finished his Spanish degree at Shipley College, not noted for its European adult education. Predictably, JB was late again as his £2,000 bike could not accommodate a water bottle.
Mrs Shackleton had arrived looking pale and gaunt but confident that she’d got all the insurance policies in place and ready to take one last look at husband Brent and trade in the Corsa for that Porsche she’d always dreamed of as daughters Gemma and Laura dreamed lazily of shiny new soft-tops to replace the ageing soft-top that was Dad. As for me…well my mum simply had that well-worn weary look that said: ”When will he ever grow up?”
The Railway Carriage
So we were off via the train to Skipton and then a gentle few miles on the canal past the swans that had attacked Molly several years ago on our sponsored walk for the same cause. You could hardly blame them for being aggressive towards a twenty-five stone bloke wearing a matron’s outfit, Eric Morecambe glasses and hobnail boots but they’d clearly been on an anger management course since then. And then the rain began so we sought refuge in a teashop in Gargrave and began to consult the maps over a feast of cakes and scones.
This year’s route was far less signposted but as Rick was a geography graduate – good start for a life as an accountant – and JB had brought more navigational aids than Ellen Macarthur then surely we were okay; cometh the day cometh the Tom Tom which had replaced Nav Man as this year’s gadget of choice?
Soon we were off again but halfway up a long hill saw the most extraordinary sight. A clash of wheels with Brent and off came JB whilst at the same time his rucksack simply exploded like a Christmas cracker with the contents flying across the road with the rest of us helpless with laughter. We did counsel him never, ever to take that rucksack on the Tube.
The Day One Ritual – Brent Dies Again
A little further on and, although we’d all been ignoring the grunting and wheezing behind us, barely ten miles into the trip Brent wailed “You’ll have to leave me, I can’t go on…I’ve had it.” The big man was blowing harder than the local steam railway. An antidote was called for and we found it in Settle in the form of a wedge of chocolate cake that had him sprinting off like Mark Cavendish up the next hill. It seemed the only way to get him around this year was going to be cream and fudge induced.
Finally we arrived at the Marton Arms in Thornton-in Lonsdale, opposite a medieval church and next door to a Saga Caravan Park; two nights here were going to be a blast and a real lift to my flagging love life. The owner was a manic-depressive suffering from OCD and an addiction to laminated notices all beginning with “Don’t”. The Nanny State had reached the Dales but it had never encountered JB and by the time we’d left he was busy adding the following notices:
- Don’t turn the bathroom into a lake every time you shower;
- Don’t make your room resemble a squat in two minutes;
- Don’t spend four days reminding your mates that you are on for a leg over.
Dire food, a lumpy bed and JB snoring like a baby rhino all night, I was definitely going back to Lanzarote next year – solo – after a quick note to Trip Advisor.
Monday – Oh Green And Pleasant Lands – If Only We Could See You
Grey, misty skies and Brent was pale-faced at the prospect of almost another forty miles. Mrs Shackleton was on red alert but little did he know there was no way she was ever coming having now ordered the shiny new Carrera and put down a deposit on the apartment in Barbados. Breakfast was that bad it made one of Molly’s Sunday morning bacon butties seem positively cordon bleu, so off we set with bellies to match the leaden skies and the maid shaking her head at the carnage around JB’s bed.
The trauma of hill after hill aside, one of the main reasons for Brent’s stress was his room mate’s toilet habits causing him severe sleep loss. Rick is simply unable to go through a night without regular visits on the hour, every hour, to the loo. Worse still these are all conducted naked in a semi-trance like state following the same meticulous routine of a series of farts each bulding on the last; an opening fart, a few more “phut phut phuts”, a bigger, wetter “splurt” and then finally an ecstatic groan as the waters flow. Poor Brent had hardly slept a wink as his wife and daughters planned their next spending spree with a trip to Harvey Nichols whilst he contemplated a trip up what resembled Mt Eiger.
Three bum-numbing hours later and we arrived for lunch wet and cold and with Brent on the edge of physical collapse, unable to raise the wife on her mobile, which she’d traded in for a Blackberry. Some of us were wetter than others as JB had taken a short cut through a stream and realised that not even he could walk on water let alone cycle through it and we found him further up the road, socks off and cursing his bike’s inability to aquaplane. We were tempted to rename JB “Tonto” as he became chief scout from thereon but then again, how many more nicknames could he carry. Somehow, one year on we had that déjà vu feeling.
The Constant Parabola
We just made lunch and the comely smile of the young waitress with her cropped top gave some relief to the pain but it was clear to me that my expensive rain jacket was no more than a glorified boil in the bag suit. Four days of full English breakfasts, several cream scones a day and the odd beer or two and I was destined to go back having lost three stone. Every stop involved wringing the thing out and the water flow here was only matched by JB’s increasing problems downstairs.
Since we’d begun, he’d had to stop on the hour, every hour and not just to text and giggle at his mobile. The little fellow was pushing it out in a regular arc over wall after wall and clearly he was worried but I offered him the comforting advice that it was probably only the clap. Finally it was back to Happy Harry’s Hostel where a condemned sign had been roped around JB’s bed, but at least Hollyoaks was on so the world was not such a bad place after all.
Tuesday – Is There A Chair Lift?
Sometimes it helps to see where you are going on one of these trips and sometimes not; in this case it was definitely the latter. Our immediate destination was visible until the road disappeared into the clouds but at least we were leaving Happy Harry. I’d also noticed something else new about JB; in all the years I’d known him he’d always worn the cheapest chain store Y-fronts but now he was sat texting away in black CK Hipsters, what was happening to the wee man? Now down to eleven free texts after only two days he was worried that he might actually have to talk to her…and still the waters flowed.
The scenery was magnificent as it surely is on top of Everest and you could see the look on the faces of the sheep, “surely they’ve not come all this way to….” . And then the first major mechanical failure, my chain came off and being the team players they were, they left me. Alone, at the top of a mountain, no Swarfega or running hot water and Mary’s Little Lamb looking over the wall clearly thinking ”fix that then Office Boy”. Somehow I did, without damaging a nail and wiped my hands clean on Sam’s bike, vengeance for those missing gears. This never happened with The Bedstead.
Downhill at Last
Lunch in Dent, after a freefall into the Valley for which we needed parachutes to stop, or in JB’s case the odd gate and copious amounts of tyre rubber. There we met a fellow cyclist aged about sixty – déjà vu time again – who calmly told us he’d already done forty miles, as if we didn’t feel bad enough. But at least the scones were light, fluffy and laced with jam and cream.
Once again we set off lying through our teeth to Brent with the usual rubbish: “that’s the worst over / no more hills / soon be home / think about the next cake / only ten overs on Saturday”. And although we climbed again, eventually we descended on the market town of Hawes and the best scone of the trip with free extra coffee and a bib and high chair for JB.
Kosovan Kate
Eventually we reached our destination of Bainbridge and the Rose & Crown and what we found astounded us. We had found an East European trafficking ring in the middle of the Yorkshire Dales. As I clocked eyes on my future bride, Kosovan Kate, my legs buckled as she fluttered her eyes and offered to show me to my “rooooom” and for once, this was nothing to do with the cycling. When she led me to the barn where we were to store the bikes I sniffed the straw and thought I’d never see the lads again.
As for the room, ours had a four-poster bed and I won the toss consigning JB to the single and dreaming of a steamy night with Kosovan Kate. Noticing there were no towels in the bathroom I rang down to reception and prepared for Kate. A knock at the door and with sweaty palms I opened it only to find Heaving Hettie of Hawes wheezing and coughing at the door stinking of lager and fags with arms full of towels plus a mop for JB as news had travelled down the Dales.
An early dinner was booked as this was England versus Sweden night in Euro 2006. Interestingly, we found out at dinner, whilst in conversation with a couple from Worcester, that in the last three days we’d all moved toLeeds. They asked where we were from and, Rick, Brent and I said Bradford, only for JB to say Leeds without batting an eyelid; had she made him move house already?
Never Let Children Near The Remote
Sociable as ever, we shunned the filthy locals and retired to the resident’s bar which was bliss apart from the time delay between the TVs, which meant we knew that England had scored a few seconds before it hit the net. Game over and about to go seduce my new bride when I decided to show Rick what the Lawrence family were missing by still not having Sky TV.
I promptly flicked on to “Babecast” and although we heard a cheer in the background we assumed the highlights were on. “Red Hot 40+ Wives” was followed by another cheer – confusing this, why get so excited over highlights? Just as I flicked over to “XXX Housewives” the roof nearly came off with chants of “Engerland, Engerland….” Brent burst in to say that the remote I was using also controlled the TV in the public bar and there was a busty bouncing beauty astride her pal in an England thong, hence the chants. The locals were going wild as I snuck off to bed with my new bride nowhere to be seen.
Wednesday – The Valley Of Death
By now we were fed up with JB constantly reminding us that he had some rumpty-tumpty to get back for, assuming his little pecker had not given up the ghost from constant exposure to biting winds and sheep tick, we were alarmed that Brent’s original route included a climb that seemed to require ropes and crampons; so we searched – in vain as it turned out – for a route that would not require the RAF Search and Rescue team.
As this seemed to go off the numerous photocopied pages of maps that Brent had with him, it was time for JB to demonstrate his satellite navigation toy Tom Tom at last. With eager anticipation all round, he even forgot about texting for a moment, he switched it on, only to find the batteries were dead. Can you imagine Ernest Shackleton ever getting to the Pole relying on this crap? Tom Tom was consigned to the bin and we reverted to “Rick Rick” and his map reading.
Buoyed by the prospect of one final push, yet fearful of the forecast gale force winds and rain, I led the way out with a backward glance at the caravan park. It was at this point that Brent confessed that it was all down to the motivational skills of Mrs Shackleton that had got him so far. Funny, pointed out Rick in his driest of dry tones, that none of us had ever seen the said motivator astride a bike, staring up a monster of a hill and facing the sight of Brent wheezing,big backside wobbling in front of her, whilst motivating him up there.
Fancy a Stroll?
At first it seemed one long crawl along the valley into the wind, which JB had assured us, would be at our backs all day. And then it unravelled in front of us, a snaking monster of a road climbing into an ever increasing raging wind and not a teashop in sight. The wind was so strong and the incline so steep I was blown off the bike several times, but not Brent, well you can’t be blown off if you’re not on in the first place. Rick casually suggested he bring walking boots next year as the big man pushed his bike onwards and upwards wheezing like he was into over number twenty.
I confess that although I’d never been to Kettlewell on our arrival there for lunch it seemed like the best place in the world. I peeled off the boil in the bag suit and vowed to donate it to my Dad’s next fishing trip so he could keep the maggots warm. Twenty-two more miles blazing through Conistone, Grassington, Hebden and over Burnsall into Appletreewick, but we all knew there was one more monster to come. At this point it was hard not to think of the odd member back at the club that constantly asked us, “just what do those cricketers do for my club?” whilst sipping the weekly half-pint.
A two-mile, monster climb, made a bit tastier by an accompanying hailstone shower all the way up and down again eventually saw four cold, drowned souls arrive in Skipton, faces as red as when JB stole my moisturiser and got an allergic reaction. At last we rode into Hepworth Idle CC where our junior team were playing hoping to inspire these young lads who clearly thought we looked old and stupid instead. JB had vanished for a night of passion, something that Rick and Brent were also fearful of and I trotted off home alone again to “Red Hot 40+ Wives”.
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