Andrew Duke gets his end away (continued)
Although the first part of the day's cycling was easy on the body, my brain was on auto pilot as I pedalled my way through Lancashire's urban sprawl. I had only one thing on my mind - getting to the moors before urbanity took its toll. Humming 'Bittersweet Symphony' in my head as I passed through 'The Verve's' hometown of Wigan - I contemplated having Lancashire Hot Pot with a pint of bitter. Unfortunately, however, it was only 10 am and not a single pub was open let alone doing any grub. To paraphrase the normally unquotable Richard Ashcroft, I was just there 'in my moment'. Seventeen miles later I was in Blackburn. The centre of Lancashire's once thriving textile industry provided what would be my last stopping point before ascending into the desolate moors. Whilst having lunch I contemplated counting the 'holes' in the town, the four thousand John Lennon refers to in 'A Day in the Life', but I decided to tuck into my jacket potato instead. Rural Lancashire unfolded before me en route to Clitheroe. So did a degree of madness; brought on, no doubt, by prolonged solitude. In addition to taking in the beauty of the Ribble Valley, I developed a porno star character based on the town of Clitheroe. In a non-specific Teutonic Asian accent with soft West African undertones, I shouted "my namu izu Clit Heroe" as I entered 'his' namesake town. Once rumoured to be a meeting place for witches, this cyclist was quite clearly possessed. Mr. Heroe was to accompany me for the remainder of the trip.
Heading into the Forest of Bowland, the cycling took on a more intense pace. Climbing 350 metres over Easington Fell - I recalled a walking trip I had taken in the area some five years earlier. I remembered seeing a cyclist contend with the the steep grading and thinking, "crikey, what a masochistic idiot" as I struggled to walk up it. Now I knew how he felt. Knackered. The view from the top of the pass was gorgeous (see the photograph at the top of the page) and the descent was exhilarating. Doing more than forty miles an hour with sheep crossing on windy roads, and unexpected cattle grids, is also downright frightening. After reaching Slaidburn, another steep ascent followed into some of the of the most remote cycling on the entire trip. Although Kirkby Lonsdale, my final destination of the day, was some twenty four miles away - a wrong turning on a remote road forced me to cycle some eighteen miles in the wrong direction. It was the first time I managed to get lost on the entire trip. A gorgeous B & B in Wigglesworth provided an oasis in the middle of the solitary landscape. It also provided one of the largest dinners I have ever eaten.
Making up for lost time, I put my trusty Dawes into overdrive (or is it overcycle?) on the extremely busy A65 to Kirkby Lonsdale. Making my ascent into the Yorkshire Dales, the only word on my mind was Scotland. The border seemed a galaxy away - and I am not referring to model of my bike either. The border's distance became less of an issue with each pedal as the old Roman road I was travelling on, following the River Lune, was filled with spectacular scenery. Passing Sedbergh and a junction of five valleys - I was rewarded with a breathtaking view of the waterfall which spawns the Eden River. With barely a single car on the road and weather that was neither too hot nor too cold - the view and the sounds of this waterfall became one of the most memorable experiences of the trip. It was without question a defining moment of the trip. When I started humming TLC's horribly sentimental 'Chasing Waterfalls' to myself, I knew it was time to press on. Passing Pendragon Castle, reputed to be the home of Uther 'father of King Arthur' Pendragon, the mailaise of Warrington seemed years away. The next stop was Kirkby Stephen. Rather than remembering this small town for its mountainous scenery and cathedral styled church, Kirkby Stephen holds a place in my frontal lobe as "puncture town". Having been unscathed by bike problems, apart from the dodgy brake incident in the West Country - I knew it was only a matter of time before Sod's Law took effect. I thought that my first puncture would be caused by a broken whisky bottle or a sharp cattle grid. The reality was far more boring. A measley drawing pin forced me to set patch to inner-tube.
After passing thorugh Appleby-in-Westmorland and a strenuous climb into Kirkland; it was becoming increasingly clear that the afternoon had, in the words of Sting in 'Bring on the Night', "gently passed me by". Gorgeous as the Eden Valley was, I knew that accomodation would soon have to be sorted out. After some fifteen miles of desolation, I stopped at the first bed and breakfast that I came across in Langwathby. Although it had a decidedly comfy bed and a gorgeous large bath, they were not doing food at the time of arrival. To make matters worse, the nearest pub was some five miles away.
Setting off at 7.00am the following morning, I was greeted with grey skies, a nasty cross wind and steady rain. God was not taking the piss so much as spraying it all over me. As visibility was at Stevie Wonder standards, my main goal of the day was to get as close to Sanquhar in Scotland as possible by whatever means possible. "Sod the scenic B roads and Hadrian's Wall!", I said to myself, "It's hell bent for leather time on the A roads; Penrith and Carlisle here I come..."
Penrith was dead quiet. A good thing too. With traffic as nasty as the weather, and some close calls with dodgy urban based caravan drivers, I was as pissed off as Grant and McGann in 'Withnail and I" were when they reached Penrith. The last time I went to the Lake District, I thought its serenity would over power even the most anally retentive of characters. I was wrong! Ascending through the beautiful town's decidedly damp one way system, I felt like my Dawes Galaxy and yours truly were transported into a cold municipal baths' shower in Bow. My bum was cold, my feet were wet despite the plastic carrier bags I tied to them and Scotland seemed further away than ever.
Happy Shopper - the first choice in foot water-proofing
Cold and wet progress was gradually made. As I descended into the border town of Carlisle, the cobble stone streets did wonders for my Belinda Carlisle impersonations which were to accompany me for the next five miles. "Oohh heaven is a place on earth.....". Was it bollocks. Cold beyond belief, I stopped into a Burger King (the only ruddy place open) for a cup of tea and warmth. Smelling and probably looking like a wet dog, getting many a strange look from the locals, I stopped at a local bike shop and sold an inner-tube by a gentleman who had the worst toupee in history. Although he was incredibly supportive of my trip and wished me the best of luck, his barnet resembled the coat of a dead poodle. I prayed that his taste in inner-tubes was better than his follicular replacement techniques. His 'Irish Jig' was worse than Bruce Forsythe's.
Wishing that I had the "Mr. Nice-to-see-you-to-see-you" wig on top of my own head for extra warmth, I got on to the A74 and experienced some of the most frightening cycling of the entire trip. With only a few millimetres of space separating me from the enormous lorries and juggernauts blasting by (road planning people never think of cyclists), a cross wind which would send the Millennium Dome to Mars and minimal visibility - I thought that I could very well be doing a Bon Scott-esque 'Highway to Hell'.
After a thousand expletives, and many a close call on the A74, I finally made it to Gretna. I was in Scotland. Just another 31 miles to the day's destination.
Click your way to the Highlands and John O'Groats here in Part 3
