THE JOLLY BOYS RIDE AGAIN – OLDER, SLOWER AND SADLY NONE THE WISER
SUNDAY – WHEN WILL I SEE YOU AGAIN?
It had been three long years since I had last sat at Shipley train station ahead of a four day cycling adventure with my old mates and Villas stalwarts Brent, JB & Rick. How that intervening period must have dulled all our memories sufficiently enough to persuade us that we should again consider risking possible heart attacks, life and limb or at best premature haemorrhoids. At the end of our last trip the ambulance had carted off a stretchered Brent muttering the words “never again” between fading last breaths whilst Network Rail had issued a lifetime ban on JB ever entering one of its stations again as a result of the carnage and chaos that the appropriately nicknamed Captain Chaos had caused each and every time he boarded a train. Not that given the shitty state of most trains you could really tell but the point had been made. Three years ago he left half his new cycling gear on the track as he attempted to board at Shipley dragging his bike and several sections of the Sunday Times behind him ending up cussing at the guard who simply looked bemused at this angry hairy, little man with an overdose of Factor 40 face cream. Recently JB had “relocated” toBradford’s commuter belt, leafy Ilkley, and this year would now be joining me up the line at Steeton affording an extra 15 minutes of peace before four days of mayhem rooming with the scruffiest, most disorganised man on the planet.
In the depths of winter we had all agreed it was time for another cycling challenge with Brent now fully recovered after two years in a recuperation facility and back on the Mars Bars and Diet Coke regime. In preparation Brent & Rick were staying at his luxury villa on wheels close to this year’s starting point in Morecambe, the Bradford Riviera, with the intention of using this as a conditioning camp. As usual their respective wives Sue & Julie were not slow in taking the opportunity to train up as well for several days of freedom and took the opportunity to get hammered on a vintage Lambrusco or two as a show of support for their brave husbands. For my part having prepared diligently for the next 180 miles in a saddle with a night at the Idle Beer Festival naturally I felt rough as a badger’s arse as I sat in the sun awaiting the 08.53 to Morecambe with Captain Chaos 15 minutes away. And so the Northern Rail bone-rattler edged its way up the line and as we approached Steeton I knew that the peace, balance and harmony of my life that I so cherished would have to be put on hold for the next four days. There he was bobbing up and down on the platform looking out frantically for me as I tried to hide in the guard’s compartment with passengers ducking and weaving as he clambered on the train, cap back to front like some teenage Vauxhall Corsa driver.
Bizarrely, perched on the little man’s shoulder was a gigantic bag which looked as if he had stolen it from a pizza delivery man delivering to Sumo wrestlers. This was his latest trend-setter, a flat-pack bike what will they think of next? Naturally I thought this was going to be one of those carbon things that weigh less than a pair of boxer shorts but what a heap of crap he had brought along as we were to discover over the next four days. Inevitably after another hour of frantic jigging about rearranging a two week old copy of The Sunday Times – he is the only man who can turn an orderly newspaper into an instant origami puzzle – he settled down and plugged into not one but two mobile devices and the scene was set. JB and his mobiles are like a junkie and his daily fix. If one fails to ring for at least five minutes it’s a clear sign that the world has come to an end. As for the bike in a bag he confessed he had bought it intending to cannibalise and re-use despite all of us knowing that any part removed from any bike by JB will never ever work again
I had never been so pleased to see Morecambe nicknamed for good measure as Bradford-on-Sea but brightened by the sight of the rest of the team accompanied for good measure by two nervous looking wives. Any thoughts though of a rapid getaway though were wildly optimistic as first JB had to build his bike-in-a-bag before road testing on the platform and realising he had forgot to set the breaks narrowly avoiding a sad end falling off the edge. Old One Pace Rick our Chartered Accountant who never ever breaks the pace of his life for anybody – working for HMRC why would you have to – was preparing meticulously as ever and so in direct contrast to the shambling JB we had to endure Rick’s forensic audit of his rucksack not once but twice with fraught discussions with wife Julie as to the drag co-efficient of a toilet bag, the additional weight of his daily suppositories and whether he should take a belt or not. As usual Brent’s wife Sue just smiled imagined four days on the vino slaughtered at the van and patted her man on the back pushing another jelly baby into his open mouth.
Eventually we assembled for the team photo and, somewhat bizarrely began to attract women quicker than my four day old shorts would flies at the end of our ride. One woman promptly left her husband to quiz us giddily whilst we had our first encounter with two ladies I nicknamed Thelma & Louise on the Morecambe front causing raised eyebrows from two suspicious wives. This would certainly not be the last we saw of the girls reinvigorating memories of being chased from Whitehaven to Sunderland on our first coast to coast trip some four years ago by a fag-smoking, hunting jacket clad octogenarian riding a bike older than any of us so named The Jolly Boy Hunter because we could never, ever shake him off. Finally we were ready until JB then discovered he had hay fever so an assault on the local Morrison’s car park traffic and customers alike commenced as anti-histamines were sought out. At least Rick had time for what would turn out to be the first of several hundred trips to the loo. Finally, the wives waved a fond good bye, exchanged pecks and wondered if they would ever see us again as in a remote corner of the car-park Thelma & Louise began the hunt.
This was supposed to be our easiest day in terms of saddle miles with only 35 to Settle and the odd climb interspersed with nothing more to induce heart failure than the odd cream scone. After a solid hour in the saddle imagine our surprise as we sought a refreshment stop only to see Thelma & Louise perched at a picnic stop grazing away. How they had gotten ahead of us suggested a similar return of the four year old curse and fear spread across our fly-covered faces so we roared on past eventually settling in a sleepy village called Hornby for the first sighting of the much awaited cakes. Already Brent had that look that said “how did they ever get me on a bike again?” as Rick concentrated on wiping the cream from JB’s face. Soon it was off again with still 20 miles till our first resting place but in between afternoon tea would have to be observed and eventually we reached a pretty village called Clapham still with 10 miles to go and with Paul the Weatherman’s forecast of bright sunny skies looking a complete load of bollocks as rain lashed down our backs and threatened the home made scones as we sat huddled under a parasol. Amazingly as soon as we sat down around the corner came Thelma & Louise and I must confess that I found them very chatty and sociable and very kindly they agreed to take a few pictures for me before we left.
“One for my mum please?” I asked “She likes to know where I’ve been…most times”
“Was that one of the ladies seeing you off this morning?” enquired Thelma with a quizzing wink sufficient for me to give her the rest of our planned stop-offs…any port in a storm after all.
Soon Brent and Rick nervously suggested we gain ground on our stalkers as they tucked into several cakes and scones and so it was that another theme was established for the next few days. Invariably, after refreshments we could never quite get our directional senses going again – perhaps panic induced by being caught by Thelma & Louise or a sugar rush – and so we began this final leg with three circuits of Clapham village much to the delight of the locals who cheered deliriously at each circuit. Eventually we reached our B&B in Settle and it was time to reflect on the wisdom of only bringing a single pair of cycling shorts and two shirts. Tomorrow would be hot never mind what bloody Paul the Weatherman said and we had a monster climb out of Settle with a one in five gradient that stretched for almost 3 miles the prospect of which was etched across Brent’s face. If ever there was a time for him to check the bus times or start drinking it was now. After the toss of a coin it was dinner at a very nice Italian and a few cold Moretti beers…tomorrow would have its challenges but at least we had gone several hours without our stalkers…or so we thought.
Cake Mark – 7/10 goes to Clapham let down by over-rich home made cream and butter that tended to sit heavily in the saddle…plus the staff were all high!
Cricket Grounds – Trimble in Morecambe looked tired having seen better days, which was a bit like us by the time we eventually got to Settle.
MONDAY – GENTLEMEN I MAY BE A WHILE
As I peeled my shorts from the hanger over the window, wafting away the flies, I was hit by a surge of heat and this was not from the shorts in question. Today was going to be the hottest day of the year and we had 42 miles with a murderous climb to start the day. JB had trashed the B&B’s Yorkshire Post so we had left in a hurry and on this beautiful summer’s morn I thought it would be a good move to get to the front of the pack rather than endure Brent’s sweating arse for 3 long miles. True enough this was indeed a tough climb out with the only clue I had as to where Brent was as I got to the top being a cloud of steam coming up the hill like a Victorian steam engine. This was going to be the toughest day by far…or so we thought. In fairness once we had administered mouth to mouth to the old boy the rest of the morning was notable only for the growing stench coming from my gear and the distance afforded by the lads making me suffer the illusion I was setting a strong pace. And then it happened again as we flew down a valley into a dip there were Thelma & Louise, perched on a rock exchanging grooming products from their panniers and idle gossip hilariously blocking the narrow path and JB’s Kamikaze-like approach on the hill out of the dip. Eventually we crawled down the hill into Burnsall knowing this had the makings of a long, hot, sweaty afternoon with another 25 miles to go.
As we began another tortuous climb out of Burnsall heading for a distantPateleyBridgethe heat had reached its peak and Brent’s helmet was hot enough to fry eggs on it. And then it happened a few miles short of the summit which was Greenhow village preceding a 4 mile downhill-slalom intoPateleyBridge. Brent had his Captain Oates “moment” and off he came from the bike appearing to give up the ghost after a noble climb. We rested for a while and then up he got and could easily have uttered those famously tragic words from the historic Scott of the Antarctic trip when Scott’s right-hand man, Captain Oates, sensing the futility of it all simply upped and left the tent walking into the arctic wilderness to his mortal end with the words “Gentlemen I may be a while”. Clip-clop into the distance and up the hill marched Brent, bike dragged along, oblivious to cars whizzing by and with a sunny horizon in the distance perhaps having downed his last scone. Whether it was the fear of our stalkers catching us up or the prospect of more cake over the hill he finally mustered the strength mount up and eventually we reached the next stop and we were Team Jolly Boys once more.
The good news was it was now four in the afternoon and rain was cooling us all down. The odd bit of bad news was that we still had 15 miles to go to Ripon and Thelma and Louise had landed again. More problems with our directions meant we added a few extra miles onto the route but the compensation of a ride through the magnificent grounds of Fountains Abbey and a cycle past the palatial home ground of Studley Royal CC just outside Ripon made up for this. Without doubt it had been a very long day and there was still time to lose JB as he decided to take on the one-way system in Ripon backwards. We were in need of some rest and recuperation and not, in Brent and Rick’s case, lodgings under a joiners shop. Located in a stable block with facing rooms they had drawn the short straw and an early morning call courtesy of the chain saw above was assured. No AA stars for this one.
Late in the afternoon problems were beginning to develop downstairs for me and by the time I had got to Ripon I had begun to suffer from something that I had not had for many a moon – nappy rash – where was my mum when I needed her now. Peeling off my ingrained shorts trying hard not to disturb the skin I was grateful for the range of cures afforded by Brent and Rick, both seemingly regular sufferers with an array of soothing creams and steroids as if having a mobile Boots across the courtyard. Albeit the journey door to door was made somewhat hazardous by the patrolling guard dogs, Scooby Doo Snr. and Scooby Doo Jnr. Resting on the bed waiting for the creams to take effect I thought I was hallucinating as, with JB in the shower, Scooby Do Snr popped his drooling head in the door causing me to almost foul my clean boxers. When JB came out of the bathroom he took one look and promptly locked himself back in.
Various creams duly applied once again it was off into Ripon and – lo and behold – in walked our stalkers ironically for our last ever sighting. Over the Chinese the attraction of the hourly No 36 bus to Leeds started to look as appealing to Brent as gate crashing the student ball that was going on nearby did to me. And so on the hottest night of the year fearful of a combination of middle-aged female stalkers and giant dogs we both locked down our rooms and windows and ended the day as we started in a pool of sweat.
Cake Mark – 8/10 Pateley Bridge and astonishing value at £1.99 for tea and scones plus no charge or embarrassment factor in filling up JB’s Robinson’s bottle…worst bike and worst water bottle plus no GPS gizmo…what was happening to him…hard times indeed.
Cricket Grounds – the stunning Studley Royal where money is clearly no object but a mention too for the pleasant surprise of a very well cared for Cracoe CC in the middle of nowhere but loved nonetheless.
TUESDAY – RING OF FIRE
It had been a tough night on more counts than just the heat and the growing stench from my shorts hung by the window as JB confessed mournfully over breakfast that he actually thought he was having a heart attack in the middle of the night. I reckoned he was having a nightmare induced by Scooby Do Snr. Although he was clearly in search of a medical opinion we had troubles of our own and with several undercarriages in states of distress it was more cream and goes easy with that finger vicar! Today was also the longest day and even longer if I had to do all 52 miles out of the saddle which did look a probability after mounting up and preparing the escape from Scooby Do Snr and Jnr. Soon though we were flying rapidly through admittedly dull countryside although no matter how fast I pedalled the gathering swarm of flies, locusts and mosquitoes became harder and harder to shake off. Lunch was in the splendid surroundings of Beningbrough Hall although the farm shop staff probably thought they were being raided at the sight of JB with his painted face and cap on back to front waving his mobile contraptions like loaded guns.
Soon we were cycling again through Yorkwith a cursory glance at the Minster and a unanimous flat rejection of Rick’s pleas for a stroll and a bit of culture. Given that having cycled past the Vatican a year or two earlier with the comment “just another bloody church” he was not getting my vote. Things were going far too well as we snaffled down some cakes in Stamford Bridge but with map reading not one of my speciality subjects I soon changed all that and, in keeping with our daily tradition, we were soon competing with juggernauts on the main ‘A’ road from Stamford Bridge to Bridlington. Yet another diversion, more disgusted looks at me and several more looks at the map from all angles and eventually we were off again managing to add yet another few miles onto the official route just to keep up Brent’s good spirits.
With some 55 miles done and dusted here we were in Pocklington ready for some serious R&R free from any canine threat but something was clearly not quite right here. Firstly JB had not got lost but worse, as Pocklington was suffering a mini power cut right about where we were staying. Tonight’s luxury accommodation consisted of a fight for the remaining hot water, a torch and noise pollution from endless burglar alarms wailing and screaming all night. It was even worse for Rick and Brent as they had the main entrance to Pocklington’s only night club and smoker’s corner wafting up into the room.
Cake Mark – 7/10 taken in a flower shop doubling up as a tea room in StamfordBridge. Rick’s carrot cake looked very nice until JB demolished it in one effortless attack with a wrecking ball fork to sample and Rick’s tea was in tatters. Brent continued to create a fruit mountain picking away any remnants of fruit found in any cake…a man could live off these pickings.
Cricket Grounds – Boroughbridge and what a sorry state. A bed-sheet for a sightscreen, a wicket undistinguishable from the outfield and practice surfaces with more moss than Ben Rhydding’s wicket. We expected a lot more from an affluent market town. Ouseburn CC was much better cared for but we sadly missed out on the Pilates class in the village hall which was rather a shame because the instructor was very appealing…then again after staring at Brent’s arse for almost a hundred miles by then she had little to beat.
WEDNESDAY – BAGGY TROUSERS
Breakfast with the power on again, hot running water and at last a waitress worth flirting with. Seemingly in preparation for later life there I was in smelly, damp shorts confronted by a servile, nubile young woman with my breakfast on a tray…is this how it all ends? In response to the wailing of sirens JB had shut all the windows during the night and day four began with an uncovered, damp wicket. It was touch and go whether I waved the lads on and succumbed to the charms of the waitress but there was no way she was going in the bike shed with me smelling like I was and that swarm of pursuing insects. It was looking as if I would have to stop off at Tropical World in Leeds on the way home as there surely must be some rare breeds attached to me by now. Gingerly and in unison we mounted for the final 44 miles and a planned for train around half three in Bridlington.
On we cracked again this time through several beautiful villages that said “recession, what recession?” and as Driffield approached at the end of a tough morning with the scheduled 26 miles up past 30 following yet another cock-up this time hilariously led by Brent who hardly needed the extra miles in the bank at least we only 18 to go or so we thought. Surely it was all downhill from here? On the outskirts of Driffield we passed an elderly gent cycling along, almost a corpse on wheels but when first he caught and then passed by Brent just as we approached the centre the big man was heard to utter “that just about sums it up!” as the skeleton whizzed past. Morning cakes were observed and then we headed out to take the traditional post refreshment wrong way, add another few miles and make 18 into 20 in a flash. Worse was still to come as just past a village called Nafferton there was some skulduggery with a sign post and we spent time and miles plus wasted expectation on JB leading us out of our predicament. Now we were up against it for the train out of Bridlington and hammered through the countryside.
Just as we had the sea in our sights and after well over the scheduled 170 miles our first crash and down went the big man at the back failing to spot Rick’s heavy use of the brakes with sweat pouring from his brow, wipers not working and slamming straight into him. Now Brent was in trouble, legless, brakeless and breathless…could he crawl over the line into the abyss that is Bridlington. We made it just in time for the heavens to open and a mad dash to the train station. Tired, sweaty and hungry the last thing any of us needed now was pissing on or pissing off but Network Rail had a treat of incomparable ineptitude. There in Bridlington railway station we met the ultimate relic from a bygone era – Mr Jobsworth – Ticket Office employee in charge of hacking off all who come before him and spending his working day doing as little as possible.
“Four tickets for the Leeds train please” said JB cap perched now sideways and a sun block mark going from ear to ear like an Apache brave.
“Ah!!! I see you’ve got four bikes” he said displaying his incredible observational powers from the safety of his glass encasement and possibly deriving some clues from the fact that we were all dressed as cyclists. “We can only get two on the train – it’s the rules y’know – and there’s eight bikes already in the station…I’ve counted them all” he sneered flashing a stupid looking ear-ring.
“So what’s the problem?” askedJBamazingly patient after our marathon feat and probably not seeing this half-wit as a major challenge.
“Well we can only get two on the train – it’s the rules y’know – and I don’t want a fight between you all!”
“Well just sell us the tickets and we’ll sort it” soothedJBalthough now beginning to tick as he does, chest beginning to puff out.
“No can do” he tutted “if you don’t get on I can’t give you a refund – it’s the rules y’know”
“So what can we do?”
“Ah that’s for you to decide” said the helpful bastard.
“So we have to wait till we get on in twos? What if that’s midnight?”
“Company policy – it’s the rules….” At which point Rick sensed thatJBshould be wearing a helmet at long last as he prepared to launch himself head first and helmetless through the plate glass at Jobsworth and so attempted diplomacy.
“If there are so many bikes don’t you think there’s something wrong with your policy?” said HMRC’s finest well used to the complex world of the public sector by now.
“Not my policy mate”
“So can we make a complaint?”
“All there on the leaflet”
We were tired, smelly and hungry and getting nowhere with the caged idiot so we simply got on the train ably assisted by the guard and driver who clearly had a refreshing approach to Company Policy – the “what policy?” approach. We let both into their respective cubby holes – one to drive, hopefully, and the other to sleep, peacefully – and neither came out again costing Northern Rail four fares and all because they employed some half-wit who should have been flipping burgers instead of antagonising customers. Soon we were inLeedsand one final effort was called for in the form of ten more miles along the canal.
It was all over…till the next time.
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