Linear Trip 3    1 JUN 00

I always wondered why the SONY CR-V21 radio came with an on-board fax printer. Apparently, you could take it into remote areas and by tuning into the "grinding pebbles" sound that is FAX on short wave, you could get it to spew out a weather map looking something like this:

Pretty useful if you're a farmer with a degree in meteorology and want to know if your field is going to turn into a quagmire halfway through seed planting.

In planning this trip, I've been studying more or less the same thing, what with all of the flash floods, hailstones and gales we've been having. I can only decipher the basic rudimentaries of weather maps, but when I saw this one I could see that there was a fresh SW wind with probable rain associated with it. It was near enough what I'd been looking for this past week and so started to prepare for the long trip to Bristol. On the last ride, my trousers ended up getting saturated, so I decided to venture to our works stores and con them out of a pair of blue nylon  waterproof leggings, on the pretext that I was going to be working outdoors all weekend in the rain. I was amazed when they came up as having a list price of under 4 quid, especially as they were rubberised and had an elastic waistband.

After leaving work it was off to the station to get the ticket sorted out for the 0523 train for the next day. Hmm, this is starting to get expensive now, 60 pounds including bike charge. The rest of the day was spent loading up the rucksack, most of which was the water and tins that I intended to bury in secret locations along the way in preparation for a future ride. This made the rucksack heavy, but obviously it would get lighter as I progressed. All was packed and ready to go as I got an early night; I would have to get up at 0400 with the dawn chorus. 

  Going downstairs I saw that my wife had cooked breakfast, it almost brought a tear to my eye! It was drizzling and dark as I headed up the city streets on the way to the station. Only a mile to go as the clock ticked over to 0500, plenty of time in hand. Suddenly I heard a muffled explosion through the music of the minidisc, rapidly followed by a wobbling of the back wheel. I don't believe it, the rear tyre was completely flat. If I was quick, I might have enough time to put the spare inner tube in. Pumping up the repaired tyre I saw it was 0512. I could still get there in time.

 It was not to be; after a couple of revolutions of the wheel, it exploded again. Mission aborted. There was no point in pushing it to the station, I wouldn't make it. Instead there was a 3 mile push back home and 60 quid down the drain as the ticket said it was valid only for that day.

 On arriving back I inspected the rear tyre. It had a split around 5 inches long, just above the steel band. Blooming Indonesians! They might make great food, but they sure make lousy tyres. The inner tube had poked through the  gash and split as it made contact with the wheel. Better it happening now than in the back of beyond I guess.

                             
                                                Exploding Tyres

 Trip distance: 4.72 miles in 57 mins at an average of 4.7mph.

 Linear Trip 3a    2 JUN 00

When I was in my early twenties, I would avidly listen to the latest adventures of the Soviet cosmonauts aboard the Salyut 6 space station. I would marvel at how they could live in a caravan sized object for up to a year at a time, conducting scientific experiments or going outside to administer a well aimed kick at a misaligned  solar panel.  The best time was at Christmas; Radio Moscow became an oasis in the desert of Yuletide banality all around. I would be in my room on Christmas day hearing how Vladimir Ryumin was repairing the East German MKF 6 camera, or creating new alloys in the Splav furnace instead of pigging out in front of the TV.

Anyway, after the disappointment of yesterday my mind wandered back to those days. I recalled when Soyuz 18 blasted off for the space station, only to have an engine shutdown and the crew ended up stranded in the Altai mountains on the Chinese border. They simply went back up again in Soyuz 18a as though nothing had happened. So I decided to go back to the train station the very next day and make another attempt.

So it was another 0400 start. There wasn't that much to prepare as it had already been sorted out the previous day. Arriving at platform 6 I was told by the guard that they were having problems with the doors and would be leaving late. I secretly hoped that the train wouldn't be repairable and I could go back to bed, but they got it going and we left 10 minutes late. As there were only 3 other people on board, stowing the bike was no problem and at 0625 we arrived at Doncaster. A quick dash across the footbridge and I just caught the Plymouth train in time. An empty guards van meant the bike was no problem again and it was soon time to settle back and wait for 3 1/2 hours.

 The weather didn't appear that bad outside and least the wind seemed to be in the right direction. Arriving at Birmingham New Street most of the passengers got off to go to work and glancing across the platform at the Walsall train I was surprised to see how full it was, they were packed in like sardines; I was glad I don't have to go through that every day.

 When I was a lad, engines were named after things like warships, regiments, engineers and even mountains. Seeing an engine in a siding I couldn't believe that a class 86 locomotive had actually been named "The Clothes Show Live"! I mean, what sort of a wussy name is that? I'd be embarrassed to drive the thing. I had never been on this bit of track before, or to Cheltenham or Gloucester, so it was interesting to see these places for the first time. Shame it's only from the window of a train though.

 Eventually we arrived at Bristol Parkway and thanks to some excellent directions from my old sparring partner James Thomson, it was not too difficult to negotiate through the country lanes. After while, I came across an old friend; the A46, which goes all the way to Grimsby, however it was soon time to say goodbye as the A46 veered away from my chosen route, the Fosse Way; a Roman road and as such a straight line back home, give or take.

                                                Time to mingle with the tourists in the Cotswolds

 About this time, I encountered a strange feeling; it was if my brakes were binding. Indeed I was so convinced they were that I got off the bike and span the wheels round to check. They weren't and I soon figured that it was because I was climbing into the Cotswolds. It became a bit of a slog now and I was even unhappy at the 40 mph downhills as I knew that shortly afterwards there would be a price to pay in the shape of a steep uphill. Passing through Tetbury, I could see it was a very different world from the major port I live in. It was all gymkhanas, antique shops, amateur dramatics, private schools and garden fetes. Scores of silver haired well dressed people were pottering around cutesy shops and cafes.

 After a while I arrived at Cirencester which was bustling with tourists. The streets were very difficult to negotiate as they were narrow and full of traffic. These places were definitely not built with the motor car in mind. There appeared few places to stop among the crowded pavements, so I continued to a garage on the outskirts where I bought water and ate a chicken sandwich. A little further on I got out a plastic bin liner and hid some supplies behind a tree and marked the spot on the GPS receiver for possible future use.

                                    
                                                    Hiding Food Supplies

A few miles further on and the hills were getting pretty bad. There were 45 mph descents, followed by 5 minutes of trudging up the other side, especially at Fossebridge where the River Coln had cut a steep gorge in the Cotswolds. The next few miles were spent going past countless craft centres and coffee shops until it was time to leave the A road and join the B4455, The old Roman road proper, pity they couldn't iron out all these hills like the railways builders did.

I started off the trip wearing a pair of holey jeans on top of some shorts, so I didn't have to wander around the train with bare legs, so now as the sun came out I threw away the jeans into a bin and continued in the shorts only. Hours passed uneventfully as the county of Warwickshire was traversed and soon 94 miles were on the clock and it was teatime. I stopped for some fish and chips in Brinklow, which judging by the accents of the people around was somewhere near Coventry.

 My knee and  legs were starting to ache now as I found a field to eat the food. At this time I switched over to the radio from minidisc and was very shocked to hear that the cricket Test Match in nearby Nottingham was abandoned due to heavy rain all day. My heart sank as I looked over to the north east and the black clouds. I had over a 100 miles to go and the wind was changing into a northerly.

 The main reason that I am trying out  these rides comes from many years ago when in my early 20s I was listening to a 1979 track called "Friedrich Nietzsche" by a German synth musician. I read about his philosophy and how mental strength can come only through testing yourself to your limits and going through extreme hardships and coming out the other side, which is far more fulfilling than sitting in front of a TV eating pizzas all night. In the past few years, major companies amongst others have twigged this and send their staff away on outdoor exercises or fire walking courses.

 Anyway, back to the ride and by now I had entered the city of Leicester just as hundreds of teenagers were queuing up at the bus stops ready for a night on the town. Didn't they realise, as Nietzsche had said, that alcohol is a terrible thing as it removes you from the harsh realities of life and convinces you, like religion, that everything will turn out alright? They should try 12 hours of this to get real pleasure! By now, I had reached the very busy A46, which I had cycled before, just over a month ago, so I knew I'd seen off the worst of the hills at this stage. The clock said that I'd done 135 miles , so it was case of hoping the weather would stay dry and that the wind would not pick up.

It was not to be though; about 15 miles short of Newark on Trent, rain started and the head wind increased. I was getting soaked and there was no way I could cycle for another 5 hours in this. My options were limited though. It was now 2200 and Newark was more than an hour away. I could ring for help and get someone to pick me up in a car, but there was no mobile and I hadn't seen a 'phone for ages. Looking around, there was nothing for miles and I was getting slightly worried. By the time I got to Newark, all of the pubs would be shut. Suddenly I saw a road digging machine, I could get inside there and keep out of the rain for a while. It was locked.

 8 miles short of Newark, there was an old fashioned wooden bus shelter. This would have to be my home for the night. Luckily, there was a bench inside, which would have to be my bed. I had some black plastic bin liners, from which I made some sort of blanket. I put on the nylon trousers and waterproof top and was soon resting in a pool of cold sweat. There was shelter, water and food, but unfortunately no heat and about 0100, it got very cold. I was dismayed when listening to  Radio 5 that ground frosts were forecast and that this was the coldest June night since records began, just my luck!

           0200 in a freezing cold bus shelter                                       Waiting for a train.

It was futile to sleep as dozens of lorries thundered past all night a few feet away, their draught sweeping away the flimsy plastic blanket time after time. I decided to head for the railway station as soon as it got light and although I didn't know the timetable, I knew that Newark would connect with Doncaster and then home to Hull. At 0530, I left my shelter and headed towards the town arriving at Northgate station at 0600. After buying the ticket, it was a 90 minute wait for the next train- a doddle compared to 8 hours in a bus shelter.

At 1000, 30 hours after I had got out of bed,  I arrived back home and put the sauna on. Swigging back a few bottles of Amstel, reading the morning papers, there was both a sense of failure in that I had not completed the journey that I set out to do, but then again as a Nietzschean exercise in coming through an adversity, it was a great success.
 
Final distance = 158.8 miles in 11 hours 20 minutes. Average 14.0 mph  

Bristol - Hull ride completed 5 years later!

  Trip 4--Failure