July - August 1998
Sometimes ideas take a while to become reality and the subject cycle trip certainly required a fairly substantial gestation period before I actually set foot to pedal. Four years in fact. And it all started in 1994. An insignificant passing of time in this writer's life. The memories of this particular year are few. My partner and I adopted Sylvia, our Alsation-Collie daughter from Battersea. England went belly up in trying to qualify for the World Cup and Kurt Cobain decided to do a spot of decorating in his sitting-room with a shotgun. Twelve months and these are the only three things I remember of 1994. The insignificance of this period was perhaps an ideal setting for me, in a drunken haze, to mumble something to a few friends about a having a strong desire to cycle from Land's End to John O'Groats. I must have seemed passionate about this 'goal' as, the next thing I knew, I was unwrapping a present and found a copy of Simon Brown's 'Land's End to John O'Groats Cycle Guide' inside.
The cover of this guide was enticing. A brightly attired couple on a laden tandem touring bicycle greeted me, peddling away with only a only a Highland landscape keeping them company . I envisaged myself passing that same landscape on my trek with the soundtrack of 'Easy Rider' humming quietly in my brain. I nervously opened up the book to find that its suggested 950 mile route was able to deliver the cyclist from 'End to End' in fourteen days. Suddenly my dream seemed possible (and even had its own soundtrack!). I placed the book in an easy to reach place on the shelf and whispered to myself "I'm going to crack it.......next year".
The 'Slacker', 'Generation X' and heavily grunge infused mid-nineties may have been the catalyst for my travel plans being delayed for three and a half years. That's right - 'crustiness' prevented me from accomplishing my goal. The more apt explanation, however, may lie in my tendency towards extreme procrastination. I prefer placing the blame on an 'era' though. An 'era' can't answer back. The reality is that I was never that keen on the Levellers or the grunge imports of that time very much anyway.
For three and a half years I glanced at the 'Land's End to John O'Groats Cycling Guide' on an almost monthly basis. The journey had become one of my 'one day' dreams. Until 1998 that is. World Cup Fever hit England after an eight year absence. A Nick Broomfield documentary on the death of Kurt Cobin hit the cinemas and, on 24 July, yours truly started to hit the road.
Not being of an anally retentive demeanour, I decided that the only reservation that I'd make for the trip would be my train journey to Penzance. There would be thousands of Bed and Breakfasts on the open road with my name on it, or so I had thought. As July '98 had been one of the wettest months in the history of British Julys, I did not consider a campsite tent as an option. This was my peddling holiday and I wanted to enjoy myself.
Thanks to (not so) Great Western Railways, I arrived into Penzance, with my trusty laden Dawes Galaxy touring bicycle, four and a half hours late. It was quite obvious that this particular railway network was heavily influenced by its era as well. Starting later than expected was not a brilliant way to begin the journey. I was feeling enough stress in my body already. Being primarily an urban cyclist, it is my sole means of transport at home in London, this 'end to end' trip was unlike anything else I'd attempted before. Although I had been on the saddle for a London to Brighton trip a few years earlier, my experience of long cycling journeys had been restricted primarily to the concrete jungle. Whether or not it was the heat, being unaccustomed to a laden tourer or just simple fear - the short journey from Penzance to Land's End was extremely difficult for me. I had just left a year-long job the previous evening, got very little sleep on the inappropriately titled 'Sleeper' train and dedicated myself to a fortnight of peddling. Simon Brown indicated in his cycling guide that the first day would provide "a gentle introduction to the tour". "A firm grip on what was to come" would have been more appropriate. Twelve miles later I arrived at Land's End. I passed the 'First and Last Inn in England', paid an exorbidant amount of money to have my photograph taken at the famous sign-post (indicating that John O'Groats was only a mere 874 miles away - for a crow) and entered the 'End to End Hall of Fame'. It helped to make me feel not so alone. Crikey, if someone could complete an end-to-end journey on a Penny Farthing - why should I have any complaints on top of my beloved tourer? Some of the tales of attacks on cyclists by randy bullocks and of bodily injuries did help to prevent total comfort from setting in. After walking around Land's End theme park, it was 'John O'Groats or Bust'.
The South West of England provides some of the most testing cycling on the entire tour as the road construction teams in Cornwall and Devon rarely gave consideration to the natural contours and valleys in this picturesque part of the country. They simply preferred keeping their roads as straight as possible. In addition to this - there are also 'West Country Miles' to contend with. Whether or not the heavy consumption of cider is a catalyst for this phenomenon, I am not certain, but the local road-signs can be extremely confusing. It is reminiscent of a black hole in which the closer you travel to your destination, the further away it becomes. Although a road-sign may indicate that St. Austell is a mere 16 miles away at a given point, it is quite disheartening to travel the said distance only to find that the destination is a further 8 miles away on the next sign!
The 'Chipshop' was actually five miles away!
Together with the terrain, the West Country provides an excellent source for the use of expletives. The rewards for this part of the trek are enormous however. The towns of Truro and Taunton are a welcome sites for the weary cyclist and the onerous ascents and descents of the wilds of Dartmoor Forest are an undoubted highlight. Given the remote nature of this part of the tour, I decided to use my radio walkman to provide me with a tempo for my revolutions. Although a variety of dodgy songs have now become wonderful reminders of this part of the trip, one particular bit of broadcasting helped me to feel less than proud of myself. While giving it a fair bit of welly up a hill with a gradient that resembled the todger of a decidedly aroused Ron Jeremy's, a newsbreak from the Tour de France came on complete with a blow by blow account of the action on the road. Suddenly my ten miles per hour pace up the hill seemed less than adequate. "So and so (add relevant Belgian name here) is ascending up this gargantuan hill at great speed......and so and so (add Germany's gift to cycling's name here) has beat his record from last year..........". Bastards. If only I had access to performance enhancing drugs, this hill could see me doing.........errrrrr..........thirteen miles an hour. I didn't listen to the radio again for five days.
Under the brutal sun, the exposed nature of the journey through Dartmoor requires a lot of water and some form of sun-block. Although I had plenty of the former, the grey skies on departure prevented me from acquiring the latter. I never had scout logic. A big mistake. Baden-Powell was turning in his grave. My normally whiter than white urban complexion turned into a red, reptilian-like surface. In short - I looked a plonker with very dodgy tan lines. By the time I arrived in Moretonhampstead, I felt as though I could easily fry an egg on my elbows. My cycle gloves were also shaped in such away that I ended up having perfect, oval shaped burn marks on both my wrists. When I took the gloves off, it looked as though I had recently been given tribal markings. I bought some sun-block at the local chemists - Factor 348 (crude oil). My burnt fingers were crossed in the hope that I would not look like snake-man by the time I reached Cheshire.
To view a photograph of Dartmoor Forest CLICK here.
Little did I know that I would have other, slightly more pressingm things to worry about. In between Tiverton and Taunton, I experienced my first technical failure when my front brake cable decided to snap whilst my bike was approaching a busy junction at great speed. Using both my back brakes and left foot, I managed to prevent myself from getting too acquainted with the slightly bemused looking old git in a Ford Escort who I narrowly avoided hitting. The sudden jolt forced a number of items out of my paniers - including the Land's End to John O'Groats cycle guide. After being flatened by a passing car, I picked the tattered book up to find the location of the nearest cycle repair shop. Nine very slow miles later, with only my back brake operating, I was begging the cycle shop repair person in Taunton to treat the matter with some urgency. Their initial resistance was replaced by warmth and co-operation when I told them about my final destination. "Give us half an hour" were the best five words I had heard all week. For the next twenty nine minutes, a gorgeous pint of local cider kept me company.
On my way to Bristol, I managed to pass a group of about fifteen resting 'End to Enders' who were having their 'designated tea break' at the side of the road. I overheard one of the van driven support team shouting "Oi, Seb, Darjeeling or ordinary Tetley's dear boy?". I gave these caffeine rich part-timers a friendly wave as I cycled past and realised just how alone I actually was. After hearing a faint "got any Canderel?" from one of the cyclists, I was left to my own devices with nothing but reflection and conversations with myself to keep me company. The route from Bridgewater to Bristol, on an uninspiring wet and very grey day, was not easy to contend with and the exposed nature of the area enabled a consistent head wind throughout.
I arrived into Bristol City Centre by six in the evening and found a vacancy at the Alpha Bed & Breakfast in Southville. Although this was unquestionably the least luxurious accommodation of the entire trip, it did benefit from having a free porno channel. A selection of free adult reading materials on the bedside table was another bonus.
Bristol: It at least had a bed.....and free porno!
Exhausted from the previous day's cycling (and from watching the American dubbed European cinematic erotica on telly), I set off from Bristol in a drizzled haze. Leaving Bristol seemed to take all of seven years. The traffic was abysmal. Thinking back to my trek from Bristol to Kidderminster that day, I am reminded of an old David Bowie interview regarding his memories of 1975 being a total blank. In a similar fashion, but sadly without the debauchery, this single ninety mile journey is virtually a blank to me. I have a vague recollection of the outskirts of Gloucester. I also remember having a quick pint at the 'Dog & Donut' pub (with a dodgy name like that, I could not resist) and thinking about both the film 'If' and the late Brian Jones as both had stemmed from this affluent Cotswolds town.
The next thing I knew, Worcester and the beautiful rural scenery surrounding it were miles behind me and I had the difficult task of finding a B & B in Kidderminster. The birthplace of acres of Axminster carpet and Robert Plant seemed to be virtually filled to capacity in terms of accommodation. Hearing myself ask "got any vacancies?" became as familiar of an annoyance as a Lighthouse Family single.
Although many a motorist has described the subtle changes that can be found in the linguistic landscape whilst travelling through England, a cyclist is able to enjoy these on a more enhanced level. The ninety mile journey from Bristol to Kidderminster probably encompassed the most dramatic transformation in accents on the English leg of the trip. The subtle West Country lilt of Bristol gradually became replaced by Cotswoldian Home Counties tones in Cheltenham. A rapid metamorphosis into Midlands' English occurred some four miles south of Worcester. It made me feel that I was making real progress.
My analysis of the lyrical landscapes of England would have to wait, however, as time was running out regarding my quest for a bed. With 9.00 PM rapidly approaching, I cycled to the city centre and spotted 'The Lion Hotel'. A sudden oasis in the West Midlands. A friendly face at the door said "I don't know what we've got available but come in and have a cup of tea while I have a look. Are you doing the Land's End to John O'Groats trip?". I found paradise in the centre of Kidderminster. Suddenly I was presented with an enormous pot of tea and got to know David Murdoch, the hotel's exceedingly friendly young manager, and some of his family. Everyone at the hotel was easy going and supportive of my trip. A double room was found, a free inclusive dinner turned into a couple of free pints and David, and the staff at the Lion, went out of their way to recommend some cycling routes around the Severn Valley for the following day. Although I had met, and was to meet, many a friendly Bed and Breakfast/Hotel on my journey - the Lion Hotel holds a very fond place in my memory.
The following day's route through the Severn Valley was gorgeous. The weather, unfortunately, was not. Shadowing the course of the Severn Valley railway, I passed through Bridgnorth and, by the time I stopped for lunch in Telford - yours truly was drenched and feeling sorry for himself at a Harvester restaurant. The weather seemed to get worse as I got closer to Cheshire. By the time Northwich seemed to be a vague possibility, I was forced to take a lengthy diversion on account of flooding. The home of the Charlatans seemed to want nothing to do with me. I spent the better part of two hours trying to find a place, any place, that:
1. Had Vacancies 2. Was reasonably priced 3. Had Vacancies
The only option that was available to me, and one that I cycled until 10 PM to find an alternative for, was a posh hotel with a dodgy nautical theme in the centre of town. The exorbidant price was its sole feature. Desperation won over budget.
I woke up the next morning feeling exhausted, pissed off and more money out of pocket than I would have liked to have been at that stage of the journey. My destination for the day was to get as close to Kirkby Lonsdale as possible. This was, sadly, not to happen. The pains in my knees, and brain for that matter, forced me to stop twelve miles away in Warrington. I simply was not enjoying myself. With its mainline rail station seducing me with her charms of a quick return home to London - Warrington was the closest that I came to terminating my trip. Quoting Richard E. Grant, from the film 'Withnail and I', I shouted "I feel like a pig has shat in my head" to myself as I passed Golden Square. I needed a day off but it took me ages to realise it. Wandering the town around like a bad extra in a George E. Romero film, I thought that I was being a sad git for contemplating a premature return home. A number of phone-calls to London later, I finally admitted that I was human and found a room above a pub close the centre of town. My 'room with a view' would not have been up to Helena Bonham-Carter's standards but it was clean and had a bed and a shower. The noise and factory fumes added its industrial rustic charm. Well worth leaving London for. Looking outside the window didn't help to provide a source of well needed enthusiasm either. In fact, it had the opposite effect.
Warrington by day - the smell was worse than the view
Were the Gods trying to tell me something? Was I becoming a whinging would be end-to-ender? I thought that a scrumptious Italian meal would make me realise that the Gods had better things to do than worry about me and that I would be a successful end-to-ender. Unfortunately, my venture into town only amounted to finding two Italian restaurants that were shut. The effort to pamper myself ended in a visit to Burger King with myself humming quietly to myself like an epileptic Morrissey. This is definitely not what the doctor had ordered. If Warrington can only offer this, I understand why its most famous export, Chris Evans, turned out the way that he did. Amazingly, I managed to get a lot of rest that evening and felt fully refreshed the next morning. An industrial barricade was the only thing which separated me from Kirkby Lonsdale.
Part
Two is a click away.
