FOREWORD
Last night we were sat in the pub reminiscing on past glories when talk turned to the first time we rode the Coast to Coast on our push-bikes.
Now, none of us would claim this was akin to skiing Antarctica or climbing Everest – except Brent maybe – but the four days we shared were some of the best of our lives.
I hope you enjoy this tale.
Born To Run?
One dark winter’s night, with the next cricket season an age away, four old pals facing yet another mid-life crisis decided on a new challenge for the summer months; the coast-to-coast cycle run.
Of the four of us, only the eccentric little fat hairy one – JB – had had experience of anything longer than the canal path to Shipley.
Consequently, much detailed planning and some heavy investment went into the next few months as new gear was acquired and survival plans concocted.
We may only have had 150 miles or so ahead – spread over four days – but I am sure we did at one point consider emailing Sir Ranulph Fiennes for advice.
Brent was duped into a £750 machine that he was assured would compensate for his extreme lack of fitness; on reflection we should have bought him a Sinclair C5 and simply towed him around.
Rick – tall and circumspect – was worried that his frail hamstrings would not make the course.
As for me, I was reliant on my trusted Raleigh, forged out of solid iron and won in a raffle at the cricket club for a quid. I just knew it was going to be a breeze.
The Bedstead
The lads had nicknamed my bike The Bedstead largely because it was about as flexible as one and weighed as much. On reflection, to attempt a trip of this nature on this was either naïve or suicidal depending on your viewpoint.
Whilst the other members of Team Jolly Boys had front and rear suspension, disc brakes and lightweight frames, I was riding the cycling equivalent of a twenty year-old Lada.
Self appointed expedition leader JB appeared to be sponsored by Tom Tom but as we were to discover, he could not read the map of the local town centre, let alone 150 miles of countryside. The Tom Tom was completely useless as well; we should have ditched them both at Shipley.
On the evening before we set off, JB and I prepared in the only way we could and predictably got lashed; this was not in the Lance Armstrong doping guide at all.
Monday – Whitehaven To Keswick: If You Go Down To The Woods Today
We were meeting the our senior partners at the starting point and, knowing JB’s capacity for chaos, I decided to turn up early at his place only to find the little man trying to reassemble his fancy cycling shoes.
Parts were scattered as randomly across the floor as bits of his breakfast across his stubbly chin. I looked down at my old Nikes – latterly a comfortable pair of gardening shoes – and wondered what the fuss was all about.
JB explained that the spuds locked your feet into the pedals and made you go faster – always assuming you could actually re-assemble them.
Once we were at Shipley station he was at it again. When the train rumbled into view, panic ensued as he tried to gather several weeks worth of Sunday Times, his spuds and bike in the process knocking the miserable Monday commuters to all parts.
I was on and seated when I heard a thud; had we crashed? No, it was JB’s bike half in the door and half on the platform with JB clinging on and the prospect of the train taking off.
Off we went to Carnforth with a suspicious crunch as the train crushed JB’s expensive new visor, which had dropped on to the tracks.
Roll Up, Roll Up
Carnforth was once the location for Brief Encounter, a romantic weepy made circa 1940. I know this because JB passed the time by detailing the plot for the next two hours.
It seemed a pity that we subsequently turned up at this historic station looking like circus clowns – draped in bright Spandex with sun cream splattered all over our faces.
A quick cream scone and once I had wiped JB clean again with a Wet Wipe, we moved on to Whitehaven, a place that makes Bradford look positively cosmopolitan.
Finally we met up with Brent and Rick only for further trauma courtesy of JB who had managed to get his foot stuck in his bike. He began jiggling around the platform like a dancing bear trying to free his leg.
This fascinated the locals who were just on the verge of passing the hat round when he freed himself to be greeted with wild applause.
The Deer Hunter
At last we were off, facing four days of slog and numb-bums. Very soon we met three fellow cyclists doing the same route but with an average age well in excess of sixty which made us feel slightly better.
The eldest must have been eighty and was sporting chinos, a hunting jacket and a deer stalker with a permanently lit fag dangling from his mouth. They were to haunt us for the next four days.
That very first day was sheer torture in extreme heat with murderous climbs in and out of numerous valleys. I had never seen Brent so scared since he batted against a gigantic West Indian bowler called Copey.
Late in the day, as destination Keswick finally loomed, disaster struck.
After yet another lung-busting climb in the heat, JB flew off down the hill with a crazed yell and Rick decided to follow on close so we could tell the rescue services where to find the body.
“Tell Sue And The Girls I Love Them!”
I stayed with Brent as he looked fragile to say the least. Unbelievably, he had under-eaten, something you would never normally associate with Brent.
Suddenly, he collapsed in a heap and could go no further and we were genuinely concerned for the big man especially as we had not named a reserve for the game the coming Saturday.
Fortunately we found an angel in the woods in the form of a lovely lady at a nearby guesthouse who offered Brent the only form of resuscitation he knows – cake – as long as we left the scruffy little one outside.
In The Woods, Shorts Round Ankles…not A Good Look
With Rick escorting Brent safely into Keswick, JB and I decided to complete the “official” route. I should have known that following cycling’s equivalent of Eddie the Eagle was not sensible at all, especially on my crate.
Flying through some woods at a breakneck pace with The Bedstead vibrating violently beneath me, I hit a huge brick and was launched through the air, landing with a thud in the undergrowth. Was I dead?
With two flat tyres, a bent back wheel and blood over my fancy new outfit, it could have been a lot worse. Strangely, the tie-cord on my new shorts had also popped. I looked like the victim of some violent attack as I trudged along alone, dragging The Bedstead behind me.
Finally I found JB on the edge of the woods where we embarked on some basic cycle maintenance as the midgies tucked into the two of us relentlessly. Eventually we cycled into Keswick, half-bitten to death and hours late.
The guest house that Brent had had six months to book turned out to specialise in dwarves and the ceiling was so low that even JB had to crawl about on his knees. Soon, one side of the room was like a bombsite as the scruffiest man in the world inflicted his unique brand of domesticity.
At this point, it’s right to point out that if you were expecting wild tales from four lads cut loose on the road then try all day on a bike for the libido; I felt violated.
Tuesday – Keswick – Via The Bike Shop – To Penrith
We awoke to some bad news as, despite leaving them unlocked, nobody had stolen our bikes so we had to continue. Once we had all gingerly mounted, we headed for the local bike shop to assess the damage to The Bedstead.
With any luck, it would be terminal and I could go back to bed. After the resident hippie had put down his joint, he looked at my bike and gave his assessment.
“Sometimes we see really crap bikes like this on the coast to coast. They tend to leave them here for scrap and buy a new one to make sure they’ll get there.”
He then comforted me that for the next hundred miles or so I had one brake, a knackered back wheel and was cycling the equivalent of a knackered tank. His final advice was either to take the bus or make sure I had chosen the hymns for my funeral.
So off we went, cheered by the news that I was on the edge of calamity, Brent was just out of intensive care, Rick’s contact lenses were playing up and JB was in control. The portents were not good.
Get a Job!
Early in the day we passed some local layabouts moping around some lumps of rock. Something to do with the summer solstice and no doubt passing time before their giros could be cashed and off to buy more weed and a rainproof kaftan.
I made a rash comment about work-shy, lazy good for nothings until the boys reminded me of my own work/play ratio for Barclays Bank; they had a fair point.
More glorious sunshine and more never-ending hills followed but eventually we reached the Eden House Country Hotel, a place so lacking in atmosphere it seemed to be waiting for JB.
Still, at least we had single rooms and I would not be kept awake by the baby elephant I roomed with last night.
Wednesday – Penrith To Rookhope…and Tina
This was the day we all feared, with some monster climbs for most of the way. Brent looked pale and ready to offer himself to the gods, especially now that his super bike was down to three workable gears thanks to JB’s early morning bike maintenance.
A good buy I thought, as I humped The Bedstead off it is mountings singing “one wheel on my wagon….”
At the foot of a monster climb, JB asked if anybody fancied the off-road route. Clearly he had nicked some weed from the bike man in Kendal. Off went the little mad man down into the valley; being loyal mates we left him there.
What the map should have pointed out was that off-road was fine in a Range Rover. As we sat at the summit we could just pick him out down in the valley, glistening with sweat, covered in mud and cursing away; life was sweet again, albeit temporarily.
The Rookhope Inn – Paradise Lost
The afternoon was a succession of hills and every time we reached a summit JB would exclaim “that’s it for today.”. As usual he was talking bollocks.
One hill was so steep that a middle-aged couple who had decided to walk their bikes up actually passed Brent still manfully in the saddle wheezing away looking like a steam locomotive going backwards.
Six saddle-sore hours later and in we rode to meet Tina and the locals at the Rookhope Inn, a place that BBC Holiday will never ever feature I promise.
The pub was run on a last out/lock-up basis; Tina liked a pint with her cornflakes and the previous week’s turn – a Freddie Mercury look-alike – had been bitten to death by midgies and was buried behind the bike shed.
All beers were £1.50 a pint and when we enquired as to why the barman said “dunno”.
Has it always been like this…”dunno”..
What time’s dinner..”dunno”.
At three in the morning the local farmer, having had his fill, climbed into the combine and was heard to rattle off into the night. These people were the happiest I’d ever seen.
Thursday – Rookhope To Sunderland– Home
We left Tina the next morning very soon after breakfast with a tear in her eye and a cold pint in her hand. After one early climb it was flat out across some spectacular landscapes.
Things were going too well until Brent’s dream machine collapsed again with a broken chain. No problem said JB and then proceeded to take two hours trying to fix the missing link only for the local DIY man to give it a crash with his hammer and cure it within a minute.
Once again the old boys who had been shadowing us all trip sauntered past again with the Deer Hunter looking serene, fag hanging from his lips.
With twenty miles to go we hammered it and we didn’t see the old boys until we reached the coast-to-coast offices in Sunderland; there they were on the steps, taking in the vista that was Sunderland.
Sunburnt, covered in flies and stinking like tramps, our bodies aching, we had made it. It was an emotional end for Brent as he viewed the ocean, having thought that he might never see one again.
My thoughts turned to our next trip as I sat astride The Bedstead, dipped a front wheel in the North Sea and wondered if I would ever sit down again without the aid of a very large cushion.
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