Thursday 9th August
Today's ride, Formby to Preston via Funland (Southport); 52.67km
Thursday, 9 August 2007
Wednesday, 8 August 2007
Ferry cross the Mersey
It’s a shock when it happens; the sudden loss of traction, feet spinning wildly, bike wobbling like jelly, the struggle to get feet out of toe clips before toppling over. I was 100 yards ahead at the time but there was no mistaking something was up behind me. “Stuart, Stuart. Stop. Stop. Stop,” Kirstie’s voice reached me quickly on the wind.
By the time I managed to turn and get back to them, Matthew was already off the bike retrieving an oily chain whipped clean off its sprockets into a small sand dune drifted across the prom. “Dad, the chain’s actually snapped,” he said incredulously, holding up the sand-clogged chain. The situation reflected the tension we were all feeling. Three long 60km days heading for Kirstie’s mums house and now half-hourly phone calls from her to establish our precise location and ETA. Dinner was nearly in the dog, wine was flowing and we were long overdue.
It was a beautiful place for a breakdown, having ridden up the woody disused rail-trails of the Wirral Country Park to West Kirkby, we were pushing against a coastal headwind along the breakwaters of Hoylake when the toolkit came out. Offshore, the windmills of Hoyle Bank windfarm made good use of the wind while onshore it blew oily baby wipes along the prom as I struggled to replace the chain-link sheared by the brute force of Kirstie and Matthew’s struggle with the elements.
I’d never noticed the beauty of the Wirral before; in my head it was all old docks, run down seaside resorts and aspiring residential areas. But I hadn’t ridden there before. And when you ride you see a place differently. And what started as a diversion to see Kirstie’s mum and avoid Warrington, Wigan and Widnes became a fine, if slightly longer and windier, route North towards John O Groats.
The following morning, chain replaced, dinner consumed, wine finished, we met Christine, Robbie and Jonathon outside the Mersey Ferry terminal at Seacombe. Sitting on deckchairs next to a clutch of bikes and trailers, tending a colourful box full of cycling helmets, they too were advocates for coastal rides around the Wirral.
“People don’t realise how flat and beautiful the cycling is over here, and how the place has changed,” said Christine. “We’re trying to promote it, renting out bikes for people coming across on the ferry.” But despite plenty of them coming across, school groups, family groups, tour groups, not many seemed to be taking up the option to hire. “It’s a bit slow today,” Christine admitted, “but we’re just here for six weeks to see how it goes. It’s a new thing for us. We’re a mobile cycle hire business, so if it doesn’t work out here, we’ll go somewhere else.”
Christine and the lads from the Liverpool Bicycle Cooperative kept an eye on our bikes while we took a break from touring Britain to take a tour of the Universe in the Mersey Spaceport. “We’ve had a lot of interest since you left,” she said when we returned, “a lot of people looking over your bikes, asking if they’re for hire.” There are some days when I think we’d gratefully rent them out but today wasn’t one.
With the wind gone, and the sun shining over the Liver Building, we took the Ferry across to Liverpool along with the throngs of other holidaymakers humming along to Ferry cross the Mersey piped over the ship’s tannoy.
With the wind gone, and the sun shining over the Liver Building, we took the Ferry across to Liverpool along with the throngs of other holidaymakers humming along to Ferry cross the Mersey piped over the ship’s tannoy.
Wednesday 8th August
Today's ride, Wallasey to Formby via Liverpool and Anthony Gormley's Another Place; 31.6km
Tuesday, 7 August 2007
Monday, 6 August 2007
Sunday, 5 August 2007
Pedicab Phil
As we enjoyed a relaxing ride along the beautiful riverside path through Shrewsbury, weaving in and out of locals and holidaymakers enjoying the Sunday sunshine, I almost crashed into a a bright blue T-shirt standing next to a large silvery-grey rickshaw.
Pedicab Phil was standing proudly to attention in the shade of an old oak tree, waiting for customers for his shiny, new cycle taxi. Now here was a job I could understand.
“How many people can you take?” I asked.
“Three,” he said, “maximum load, a third of a tonne.” I was impressed.
Two little girls came over to ask how much for a ride. “£1.50 each for a short ride along the river or for a bit more we can go into town.” The girls ran off back to mum.
“Are you a proper taxi?” I asked. It was a bit of a contentious question. “You know there’s over eight hundred of these in London and they don’t need a licence but here in Shrewsbury the council insist I’m licenced, like a Hackney carriage.”
We talked for a while, one horse to another, about hauling heavy loads and his fledgling human powered enterprise. “Business isn’t as good as I hoped,” he explained, “the cab cost three grand and what with licence fees and not so many customers…...” I felt for the guy and all his financial and physical investment.
“How much to John O’Groats then?” I asked as Matthew and Cameron got off the tandems and went over for a closer look. But he didn’t want to get into the long distance game.
Saturday, 4 August 2007
All we could hear was chugg, chugg, chugg...
…chugg chugg as we climbed the steep hill that would put us in striking distance of our next City. We tried to guess which tractor was behind us. “Definitely a John Deere,” said Matthew confidently. “Could be a Massey Fergie though?” I saidtentatively. I had received a crash course in recognising tractors by their sound and colour the first week of our trip, on the Cornish roads, but for me it was still hit and miss while Matt got it right most of the time. The chugg chugg chugg continued for another kilometre as we pedalled onwards and upwards. Eventually, with our T shirts dripping with sweat, we pulled over at the top of the hill. Two massive John Deere’s pulling farm machinery chugged past, followed by a car, then another car, then another one. “One, two, three….”counted Stuart while the kids waved to the drivers in the convoy. “Seventy one, seventy two, seventy three…” the last one crawled by. Unusually, each had waved back enthusiastically at us as they passed. “Seventy three of them! Oh dear. I think they might be under the impression that we were holding them up and we stopped here to let them go ahead. They’re not going to be waving when they find themselves stuck behind the John Deere’s and still going at ten miles an hour for the rest of their trip into Ludlow.” I said, trying to be charitable, but unable to conceal a smile.
Fittingly, I had picked up a leaflet at breakfast in the our Youth Hostel about Ludlow, the city we were heading for. It is the UK’s first Cittaslow, or “Slow City”. The publicity describes going slow as the route to a new quality in life. It’s based on the ideals of the Slow Food Movement, but for us it was a legitimate reason to pedal like snails and hold up the traffic, something we had been doing for the last three weeks anyway. But as we headed into town and got our usual reception of tooting drivers, vans cutting us up and pedestrians jay walking in front of us, we weren’t sure that everyone else had been briefed about going slow.
We stopped for lunch by the castle and a family came over for a chat. They’d just returned from New Zealand after four years and were finding the UK difficult to handle. “So much traffic, so many people. Kiwi life is so much slower,” they said. It turned out they had just moved to the next village to us in Cumbria. We gave them our number. “Perhaps we should get together for a coffee after we get to John O Groats. No idea when that might be,” Stuart grinned. “We’re just pedalling slowly on.”
We got on the bikes and cycled away. “You should do it the other way round,” shouted a pedestrian reading our flag. “If you go from John O Groats to Lands End, it’s downhill all the way.”
Friday, 3 August 2007
Motivational madness
After twenty consecutive days of cycling finding the motivation to ride is becoming an issue. And it’s not just a question of motivating myself but of getting the rest of the team on board, sometimes literally.
Early on I used mints; one for actually getting on the bike or into the buggy, then another after every 10km. It seemed a reasonable rate (although our dentist may disagree) and the scheme worked well until the relentless pestering of ‘when are we going to get the next mint’ and the distress of unsticking Hannah from her buggy at the end of the day made it unbearable to adminster.
Our best days are when there’s something interesting to stop at on the way, breaking up the ride, giving us something to look forward to before or chat about afterwards. The kids picked up some leaflets for Wookey Hole caves way back in Tiverton (and then Taunton, Bridgwater and Glastonbury) and the promise of a visit kept them riding for four days and occupied in the evenings with hours spent examining leaflets and debating which of the many attractions of ‘Wonkey Hole’ they would go on.
It’s quite a balancing act trying to keep us on a track towards John O Groats while picking a route that’s off busy main roads and has something of interest on the way. It’s as important to my sanity as it is to keeping the children engaged and pedalling. The cycling on its own isn’t enough.
On the map Symonds Yatt looked a like a great motivational diversion; a ride and picnic on the banks of the Wye, a river crossing on an ancient hand-ferry, ice-creams and drinks at an old Inn and some playtime in canoes on the river. All for just an extra 10km on the way to Hereford.
“Is the ferry running?” I asked a woman on the hilly cul-de-sac leading to Symonds Yat West. “Oh yes,” she replied, “It’s a lovely way to cross, quite reliable, kids love it.”
“Is this the right way to the ferry?” I asked a second woman after struggling up another 100m of unexpected climb. “Oh yes, go down the hill now and wait opposite the Saracens Hotel. When the barman sees you he’ll come across the river and get you.”
Ten minutes later at the bottom of the hill we bumped bikes and trailers down a dozen slippy steps to wait for the ferryman on the muddy bank. After a while a young man came down to the riverside, “Sorry, no ferry today,” he shouted across the river, then turned and disappeared back into the pub. Kirstie looked at me blackly, Hannah slipped on the mud and slid towards the Wye and the boys just looked at me as if to say, ‘What about our ice creams?’ Turns out the ferry cable snapped in the recent floods forcing retreat insteat of a treat.
Like the mints the Symonds Yat Escapade ended up yielding more grief than progress and I thought I’d learned my lesson when I planned today’s ride. I checked carefully on the internet that Leominster had two of the ultimate treats for children; a swimming pool and a McDonalds. I saved details of them on my phone and showed everyone the delights at the end of our 30km ride. I had total buy-in, full-on pedal power and we stormed along at record speed.
The swimming pool was still open when we arrived, with thirty minutes of public swimming left, thankfully just enough for a quick dip. Afterwards, over tea in the poolside café I looked up the address for McDonalds on my phone and asked the waitress how to get there. “There’s no Commercial Street in Leominster,” she said, “we’re just a little town near Wales.” The boys fell silent. “So where is the McDonalds then?” The waitress laughed kindly, “Nearest one’s back in Hereford.” Lips began to quiver. “There’s a fish and chip shop here though.” No-one looked impressed. I checked my phone again…. “but look here it says…” and then noticed the letters MA after Leominster. I’d looked up Leominster, Massachussets, USA.
I tried explaining my mistake but the boys didn’t get the joke while the staff didn’t seem to get the significance of a McD visit to the boys, identifying us as fast food junkies rather than toy impoverished long distance cyclists. “There’s a kebab shop you could try,” suggested the receptionist. “And a burger bar in town,” said the café manager. “Or what about that fast food pizza place,” said the waitress. I felt sick at the prospect. It was time to leave, but now no-one wanted to go anywhere.
“I could drive you to the one in Hereford,” offered the café manager in a final attempt to wipe the misery of the boys faces and out of her cafe. If it hadn’t meant going backwards I might have taken her up on it.
We eventually got out on the promise of a playground; an easy promise to make and deliver on. Oh and two handwritten IOU’s promising a Happy Meal with Ronald at the next available restaurant. Well, it’s a small price to pay for all that pedalling. And who knows there might not be one until Glasgow.
Thursday, 2 August 2007
"Wednesday, 1 August 2007
Wednesday 1st August
Welcome to Wales, Chepstow CastleToday's ride; Severn Bridge to Monmouth via Chepstow and Tintern Abbey, 35.64km
Tuesday, 31 July 2007
Drifter
We are starting to feel like Mr and Mrs Noah, travelling towards the flooded lands, two by two. Tandems, children, trailers, toy puppies, the only thing not duplicated is the baby; we have no plans to do that on this trip. As we bomb through Bristol, with its historic harbour and welcome hotel facilities, we consult the map, wondering if the waterlogged Midlands have dried out enough to accommodate our travelling circus. Can we get through Gloucester without our tent sinking?. Will our buggies grind to a halt in a puddle of Tewksbury? While we stop under the Severn Bridge to picnic and discuss it, the kids make a collage on the sand from bits of sea glass and driftwood. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a man pedalling along with what looks like a large portion of a tree slung across his basket and handlebars. I half expect him to take off and soar over the Severn, like the child from ET. He dissapears towards a row of houses while we lay out our maps on the wide cycle path.
“How do you get on with your trailer?” The man is back, with his basket now empty. “Everyone’s been telling me to get one for years” he says, grinning through a rack of corrogated teeth, “but I’d never get it through all these gates.” We swap horror stories of getting the bikes stuck in some of the worst of the barriers, designed to keep out motorbikes, but unintentionally bringing a halt to our HGV style bikes time and time again. Jim explains he negotiates the gates each evening, riding the sea front picking up driftwood to heat his living room, making himsef and his wife self sufficient for fuel. “In the winter we move into the living room, make a right good fire, and sleep there,” he tells me. “It’s our only way of keeping ourselves warm.”
On his daily round he collects each piece of wood individually, throws it across his handle bars, then takes it home to dry out. Much of the wood he stores away for winter, although he collects it all year around. But over the last week or two he’s gone into overdrive. The floods in Gloucester have washed down so much driftwood that he’s concerned there’ll be nothing left to pick up in the autumn. We chat about self sufficiency and being green, and he shakes his head. “Agh, while there’s just a few eccentrics like me combing the beach there’s enough wood to go around. But if everyone was doing it I’d be finished. Ive been doing this for years and it’s funny how it’s come around again. You know, I modelled myself on the old girls from Liverpool after the war, scrabbling around on bombsites, picking up and burning the wood to keep themselves from freezing. ” He shows us his bike, a single geared 1950’s classic with a red plastic crate that looks like its been borrowed from the milkman tied on the front with string. “What do you think of this then?” Jim asks. He poses for a picture, “I’ll cover up me teeth; not so photogenic eh?” then he mounts his bike to get on his way. “Enjoy yourselves. You’ve picked a good evening for it. ” he says, peering out at the calm waters towards Wales. “This mighty Severn can kick up real nasty,” he shouts, moving off towards the sea. “ We fold up the maps, and decide for now to head for Wales. The rest we can work out on the road.
Tuesday 31st July
End of the day beyond the Severn Crossing
Today's ride; Bristol to Severn Bridge via Avon Gorge, 36km
Monday, 30 July 2007
I am the Anti-Carist
“Why did that car just throw coffee at us?” asked Matthew as we headed out of Bridgewater. I wiped coffee off my face and jersey as we crunched over the now empty styrene coffee cup lobbed from the window of a Ford Fiesta boom-box whose occupants stuck fingers up at us out the window as they sped off down the road.
How do you explain that to a six year old? If I’d had the energy to sprint and catch the finger sticking youths, I think I’d have found a new use for my penknife, slicing tyres and scratching go faster stripes. But it wouldn’t have set a very good example so I tried to make light of it. “Maybe they thought we were thirsty?” But no-one really got the joke.
I pedalled on fuming to myself. Not just at stupid yobs who think it’s a laugh to chuck coffee at cyclists but at all the cars, lorries, campervans and caravans that have cut us up, stare-eyed us, beeped at us or joked ‘Can’t you go any faster?’ or ‘John O Groats, you’ve got a long way to go then’ as they passed us on the hills. I mean it’s not like we’re looking for trouble and for the most part we’ve had none but the longer I ride for the more Anti-Carist I become.
Struggling up to Priddy in the Mendip hills a car crawled slowly past, the driver slowing down while passengers gawped stalk eyed at us, fat noses smeared against prison windows. There comes a point with a loaded tandem and trailer at which the reverse pull of gravity defies all attempts at riding uphill. As I reached that critical point and got off to push up the impossible gradient, the car pulled into a layby just ahead. ‘Great,’ I thought, ‘perhaps they’ll help.’ But no, they preferred to watch as we sweated and struggled up the hill. Almost without fail, pedestrians who have passed us in this kind of predicament have offered helped. On our way into Bristol, four drug-eyed teenagers even put their spliffs out to lend a hand, but motorists? No; they seem prefer to watch the show from the safety of their tin coccoon.
Traffic is not only choking me up but it’s choking this country. South of Bristol, we stopped briefly in the pretty village of Chew Magna, mysteriously (and incorrectly) associated in my mind with being Britain’s first Carbon Neutral community. The volume of cars speeding down single track lanes to get quickly to the village traffic jam soon put me right. Parked cars, vans and traffic queues made it hard to negotiate our way through the village. It’s sad to see once quiet rural environments strangled like this.
As a cyclist, it’s hard not to feel like a second class citizen. For sure we’re given cycle routes and facilities but they never match those given over to the car. In the Tesco car park in Taunton we struggled to find a place to park our tandems to do the weekly shop. Give them their due there was a signposted cycle path, and the place was accessible from a cycle track but there were only spaces for twenty ‘ordinary’ cycles while the car park must have had spaces for five hundred plus cars. Once we’d managed to park our bikes, they were obviously something of an inconvenience to those trying to get their trolleys back to their cars.
We’ve given over too much of our country to the car. Just look at the swathes of roads, eating into the countryside with each improvement and widening scheme, the acres and acres of car parks in towns, cities and shopping centres and all so we can be free to travel whereever we want whenever we want. Does no-one see the price of this freedom? We followed the cycle path on the M5 road bridge across the River Avon, cycling just yards from the deafening noise of thousands and thousands of vehicles going nowhere on important business, while we tried to pick our way along a cycle route littered with shards of broken indicators, glass, straps and debris from traffic accidents. That’s the price we pay for our freedom.
The people that do stop and talk to us ask almost us everyday, “Are you enjoying yourselves?” Well despite all this, we certainly are. Why would we bother if we didn’t? The freedom of the bike is an intoxicating thing. And I’ll enjoy it even more now I’ve got all that off my chest.
Monday 30th July
Cycling through the urban splash of Bristol Today's ride: Priddy to Bristol via Mendip Hills, 40.34km
Sunday, 29 July 2007
Saturday, 28 July 2007
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