juliusbird's posterous

Day 10

In the B&B, as I was looking for some cushions to elevate him on, he suddenly piped up:

"Can we put Coronation Street on instead?"

"No."

"It's better than that newfangled crap you've put on."

"I said NO, Harry. And watch your language."

He's been rude and petulant all day. I've sussed him out though - he's just lazy. Give him the Somerset Levels and he quietly dozes off, but at first sight of a hill he starts thumping his walking stick around and airing his terrifying politics.

The day had started OK. After Dad dropped me back at Bridgwater, the road was fairly flat until Taunton. However that wind was still there and was (again) heading straight into me. I'm beginning to think south- westerly might be the prevailing wind in this country, and that September is a windy month.

My trick of shouting at the wind doesn't seem to be working. Heading out of Tiverton towards the hills, with a belly full of jacket potato and half way up a 2 mile climb, it absolutely refused to let me go any further. It reminded me of the image of a 7 foot boxer keeping his 5 year old opponent at bay by casually placing his hand on his head, whilst the boy futilely thrashes his arms around. Except this time, the boy spat the dummy, screamed something I can't repeat, and threw his bicycle onto the grass verge - much to the surprise of the elderly ramblers he hadn't seen just to his left.

This made Harry chuckle with much amusement, whilst I made a mental note to rip him out as soon as I get to Land's End.

Miles: about 67


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Day 9

"Bye Damien, good luck!"

  "It's Jules, but thanks for letting me stay".

  "OK David".

  Lovely man, but he's always had trouble with my name. A long time ago, when I went out with his daughter, I looked up the meaning of Damien - it's 'son of the devil'.

  As i set off on what felt like the home straight, I was immediately blown backwards by what BBC News had called a Severve Weather Warning. A few miles down the road, a low loader carrying hay had been completely blown over (see picture), and I knew I was in for some fun. With my companion The Mule watching the weather forecast in London (probably in his jim jams) I was transported back to Day 1, on my own with a biblical south-westerly and a sense of humour failure.

  The A40 dual carriageway to Monmouth is renound as being lethal in a car. On a bicycle, it's suicide. Hungover Taffys in souped-up Subaras came within inches of my handlebars, whilst throwing their empty 9am Peperami packets out of the window. With wobbly knees, it was the first time I was happy to pull off onto a more hilly road. 

  By midday I was on the Severn Bridge where it was so windy I pulled an unintentional wheelie. Top points for being 'Radical', but i'm 27 now, and I nearly had a heart attack by the 200 foot drop down to the water. Luckily mother was waiting with lunch in Bristol, along with my first viewing of the latest edition to the family - Cassius Collins. Only a week or so old, but already quite The Dude.

  The afternoon gave little respite until I hit the Somerset Levels which, I can confirm, are mercifully level. At 5pm I was greeted by Dad in the pick-up at Bridgewater, to take a drenched Jules back towards Bristol for a very needed bath and a slab of beef.

  Miles - about 80.

Days 6, 7 & 8

Even though it was raining, we couldn't leave Carlisle fast enough. However, 2 miles down the road we realised that a full English does absolutely nothing to fuel the legs. We couldn't admit to each other that 10 minutes in we were already utterly exhausted, so we stopped for 20 minutes of 'stretching'. Even then, we still weren't ready for the horrors of the Lake District.

Meanwhile, Harry was proper pissed off with me. It was probably because I'd been giving 'that old fart' Neville too much air-time on my blog. Fortunately, as the rain turned to sunshine as we cruised the hills, he took a nap in his armchair. He awoke with senile ferocity as we approached 'The Shap' - a truly terrifying hill the barmaid a few miles back had warned us of. If it wasn't for her low-cut top, we might have paid more attention and remembered.

Our B&B just outside Carnforth was run by the most bonkers, Northern couple I think i've ever met. On sensing this, and seeing all the bird spotting books in the living room, The Mule commented to Jill how keen I was on 'birding', and asked where I might be able to spot a few warblers around here. As he smirked to himself and settled into his book in the sofa, I sensed he might be doing this with B&B owners on purpose. It was at least an hour before she let me leave for a shower, and only when I'd promised to visit the four bird sanctuaries in the local area.

After frequenting the local disco (don't ask) we set off on a gruesome 107 mile day. The North is grim - don't let anyone persuade you that there are some 'nice parts' - they're lying. It's Mondeo, KFC, roundabouts, DFS, grey and awful. Only 15 miles in, the landscape and architecture were weighing heavy on morale, and that's where the bickering started. I was being militant with my time-keeping (allowing few stops), whilst reminding him that there are definitely no 'delightful country pubs just around the corner'. Mules are not keen on such news. Strong words just north of Wigan almost resulted in us parting company, with not even Jelly Babies helping to lift spirits. In all my 27 years, it was the first time i'd seen Jelly Babies fail to work.

By agreeing not to talk to each other very much, we somehow made Shrewsbury by 7pm. A friend was putting us up for the night, and as she plonked a steak on our plates whilst we gloated about our 100+ mile epic (it's no big deal, oh stop it. Pain? Like you wouldn't believe...) we'd soon made up.

We awoke to yet more rain, but the prospect of half of yesterday's mileage finally got us out of bed. I forgotten to tell The Mule this was because of these little things called 'hills'. I secretly enjoy watching him suffer.

As he hobbled to the train station at Hereford that afternoon, I couldn't quite make out what he was mumbling as he walked away. I swear it was 'what an awesome few days Jules, thanks so much', but I could be mistaken.

Whilst he was probably tucking into a beer on the train, I set off on what I thought would be 10 miles of gentle riding to the parent's house of a friend of mine. But, as I'd discovered on Day 1, this is tricky in a force 7 headwind up a hill. At this point, Harry promtly came out of retirement, and ensured I needed a bag of frozen peas on my leg all evening. We'd secretly been missing each other.


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Day 5

There's only so long you can stare out of the window and kid yourself that it's a 'passing shower'.

I reluctantly set off around 8.30 and within minutes, Harry wanted a word. Except it wasn't Harry, it was Neville, my right knee. They say there's only one thing worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about. Neville knew this, and wanted to be part of my blog. Twinge twinge twinge with every turn of the pedal, until I had to stop to hit him (my medical knowledge is somewhat limited). It's like having two old winging men for legs, who squabble with each other.

Luckily the 25 miles to Dumfries was mainly downhill, where I quickly dealt with Neville's fate. With eclectic bandages and braces on both legs i look like I've been in Sarajevo for five days, not Scotland on a little bicycle ride. Still, I look bloody hardcore though, and that's all that matters.

With the gearing problem also (finally) fixed, I set off on the back lanes for Gretna Green. With the sun out and the old men gagged, I cruised over the gently rolling hills, and life was good.

Before long i was in England and the great northern city/shit-hole of Carlisle. A quick snooze at the B&B, and then to the train station to greet 'The Mule'. This whole trip was his idea, so I thought it only fair he should come and share the pain for a few days.

After finding the only pub in Carlisle which wasn't playing Iron Maiden at 900 decibels, we sat down to find that they were simply changing the CD. We quickly wolfed down our nosh to return home where The Mule made a critical error with the owner, asking "do tell me about the Great Flood of 2005". Do not ever ask a northerner that. Ever. It encompasses all that love to bore you with; hardship, DIY, getting one over on the insuranace company, and the lovely new curtains. It was a good 40 minutes before we could make our excuses and slip off to bed.

Miles: 65


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Day 4

I'd warned Harry on several occasions that he didn't want to see me cross, but he wud nae listen (he's in holiday mode and has adopted the local accent). So, just outside Dunbarton I finally found a Boots and strangled the wee laddie with a Tubigrip. He's been reduced to a moan, but the tightness is slowing me down considerably.

Just down the road was a lovely Glaswegian suburb called Paisley, and it's the reason why you pay so much tax. Unfortunately I was famished and had to stop for a jacket potato. As I did, a friendly chap clutching a Doberman and an Irn Bru was staring intently and me and the satchels on the side of my bicycle. With no railing in sight to lock my bicycle onto, I was left with no option other than to keep my eyes fixed on the young offender, and order at the same time. Ordering lunch at the counter with your back to the waitress and the menu board is both rude and full of guess work.

Karma had its way in the afternoon by getting me lost, making my chain fall off countless times, and ensuring I didn't arrive in Sanquhar until 8pm. I'll try being nicer and less judgemental tomorrow...

Miles: about 98


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