I watched the video of the Transatlantic Way last weekend. There's Roland Guillon (a Frenchman) who is featured. He is the deputy Mayor of Brest. "Many people will know Brest from the Paris-Brest-Paris" (bike ride). I find him the most fascinating featured rider. He is riding with a rack and bag atop it as well as an Apidura. He is there to "see Ireland". Riding his bike is just a mode of transport.
He loves cycling because, like life, sometimes bad things happen and then you will find that something good comes along soon after.
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| 13 days 8 hours (Vimeo pic courtesy of Adrian O'Sullivan) |
I have thought about this a lot recently. Particularly on my way home through the darkness on Friday night, right after I had a full-on argument with a senior manager who was mansplaining my job to me - the one I've been doing for 20 years.
I heard something on my tyre scraping against my mudguard through Attercliffe. Instead of ignoring it and riding on - as I was tempted to do in a dark and seedy end of Sheffield, I stopped and investigated properly. I pulled a sharp piece of metal about the size of a large paper clip out of my tyre. Potentially, the tyre may have gone flat then and there - or it might stay up. One thing is for sure, if I'd continued to ride on it, it would definitely have gone flat. In between the wrecked cars awaiting scrappage, salvage or repair, the puddles of oil and the rubbish-stoked fires burning to generate heat in the taxi garage workshops of Attercliffe, I let out a little sigh of relief as the tyre stayed up... at least it seemed stable enough to ride on.
I peered in the Garages - still with doors open at 7pm in case more customers come - I like to nosey and see what's what. There's often Asian men huddled around the fires. Smoking, drinking, talking, warming themselves, passing the time, keeping away from their women and children, talking shit - or important shit. This evening, I noseyed in on two guys reaching forwards together into a loving, generous embrace. Not a bear-hug, a full on brotherly, caring, loving hug. In my relief for an inflated tyre, my heart glowed warmer than the fires and I rode all the way home without stopping.
Having failed to do any longer rides this week, I wanted to get out today andput at least 80 miles under my belt. I'm riding 120 miles in December - my first Audax since 2013. I figure that if I ride 80 miles in OCTober, 90 miles in NOVember, I should be able to hit 120 mile in December - especially since it's a flat one.
My colleague yesterday reminded me about the storm approaching, saying they were only doing a short ride but he planted the idea in my head to ride South and then get pushed home. Cue last night plotting an 80 mile route that not only took me South then North, it also kept me down out of the windy moors of the Peak District.
TSK and I rarely venture South of Sheffield except on very long rides. There's nice places South of here but generally, the space around Chesterfield, Alfreton, Derby and Mansfield is pretty urban and sprawling. The inter-connecting roads tend to be long, straight 60 limit roads (even the minor ones) and full of boy racers in hot-hatches. They also tend to be largely devoid of cafe's & coffee shops. Unless you want a pub or an old-lady tea room, "barren" is the word.
I set my alarm for 6am, intending to do as much South (headwind) riding as possible before the Storm arrived. I left around 7:30 and was in Baslow by 9:00am. I stopped for a second breakfast since I was feeling hungry but the cafe there wasn't open, despite me wasting time at the toilets faffing with my saddle.
Around Chatsworth, I headed up a hill I normally descend with Norton Wheelers. At the top I turned right (South) onto new territory and followed this road at height for 10 miles before turning towards Wessington and the edge of Alfreton. Basically I left the quiet and lonesome high road for something that feels like an extension of Derby. Then as I pulled off the A615 into town, the familiar feel of a flat tyre.
My stay in Alfreton was a little harrowing. At first, I struggled to remove my wheel because my hands were colder than I realised and I had no grip. Thankfully though, the effort of trying to make them work warmed them sufficiently to make them work...
An old man kept walking past me. He seemed to be trying to find his home. Clearly he'd been into town to get a paper but didn't seem able to remember where he lived. I tried to help as best I could but he didn't know his phone number, kept talking about "her" but I couldn't figure out if that was his wife, daughter or carer. He didn't have a drivers license or pension book with his address on and I really couldn't think of anything else to say. I didn't want to be patronising enough to offer to take him to the police station. Eventually he watched me repair my inner tube and then shuffled into town to figure out what to do next. I didn't see him again.
Alfreton offered me no cafes and I very nearly ended up at KFC or McD's again but resisted and went to the Co-op for a sandwich and banana and stocked up on cake and flapjack. I made haste to continue my route, worried that I'd struggle to get to Newstead Abbey before the storm arrived and would be battered before I turned to ride with the wind. I thought 80 miles would be a push today.
Faster than I realised it though, I went from dodgy bike path through reclaimed pit land to Newstead Abbey grounds and suddenly I was on a closed road with no company but pedestrians, taking a picture of the lake and watching the waterfall and finally there was coffee... right up until the point where the wind blew my gloves and sunglasses across the table and onto the stones and I was so busy holding on to my coffee I let them go.
I panicked and drank the coffee and then left, wishing my mountain biking companion fare winds home and leaving him to finish his cake and updating his twitter.
Sadly, eventually I had to leave the park and continue on to Kirkby and Sutton in Ashfield - weaving my way on B-roads through tenuous industrial and housing estates, the B6039 through Tibshelf and into Chesterfield.
On the back lanes of Chesterfield, a car driver passed WAY TOO CLOSE for comfort. Lord knows what he was doing as he continued to drive in the gutter until finally pulling out into a normal position in the road. After my first outburst of "WOAH!", I was pleased to catch him up and ask loudly if my fluoro ORANGE coat was not "fucking bright enough?".
There was no way I was going to fuck up this roundabout with his eyes on me so, I bossed it and randomly selected an exit Right - as far away from his left turn as possible. It was the wrong way but would eventually meet up with my route further along.
Then there it was, part way up a random street MY OLD VANU! I could not believe it!. I was so excited, words can't describe. I'm no way upset to have sold it - it was a liability I couldn't deal with and have had 3 happy years of not owning my own car (company car doesn't count) but I have always hoped that it lived on and wasn't just taken / sold for parts. I tried to understand why it meant so much to me to see it (it's just a car after all - even if it is one that we have so many happy memories of) and I believe it's this: even though I'm not enjoying it, I'm really pleased someone else is. I put so much effort and expense into doing the conversion that the thought of that being torn apart and binned filled me with regret. But there he was, the Vanu. He has blue stripes now and I think the partially faded cat curtains are gone but my woodwork remains in situ and in tact. The same old dents and scratches are still there and it's much much cleaner.
I was so excited I had to phone TSK and then photograph it.
Out of Chesterfield, my tummy started to rumble again. I had a carrot cake that I bought at lunch burning a hole in my back pocket so all I needed was a good bush shelter to get out of the drizzle and howling wind. My Garmin came to my aid, showing a + for a Church in Barlow and sure enough, a lovely stone Lych Gate for a person and a bike to shelter in to eat cake amongst the confetti.
It wasn't far to go but that was just enough to see me through to Sheffield again and up the hill from Dore to Eccleshall Road and then on up to Crookes to walk through the door 8 hours and 77 miles later (80 - give or take the occasional failure to press the button on my Garmin).
SO there we go, from Friday foolishness to three days of bad things happening then something great coming along.
Life, I love but cycling is best.
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