A Capital Effort

Final Blog Proper - Part 2 of 2 (This time last week - Wednesday, April 6th)

Throwing open the Travelodge curtains revealed bright blue skies daubed with brushstroke wisps of cloud.   The weather on the day of the bike ride from Milton Keynes to London couldn’t have been more different from the previous blustery, rainy, grim, grey day.  As Jean Paul Sartre said “In Britain, the weather is always unusual for the time of year” … and certainly in early April, England can throw up anything from blizzards to tropical temperatures … but this day was to be Tobago not Tobolsk!  Hurrah! 

Annie and I sprang from our bed (yes, a double - we’re old friends and not given to sleep-groping) and hit the road a-pedalling.  I’d printed careful RAC instructions to get from the Travelodge to the Open University four miles away, where we were due to meet the mighty UniCyclist, Steven, as well as Mark from the Blood Pressure Association, before the four of us cruised (hah!) to old London town.

Alas, while the RAC calls the roads in Milton Keynes by  misnomers such as ‘Midsummer Boulevard’ … on maps, they’re labelled unhelpfully as things like V6 and H8.  In real life, they all look the same and end in identical roundabouts offering more cloned roads leading off them.  For the unsuspecting visitor, all sense of direction and instinct are scuppered.  Annie and I set off in precisely the opposite direction to the OU.  My fault, of course.

Annie was on her brand new birthday bike, received less than a week before, and the chain of which she’d broken immediately … but only because her fella (Mike - not a mechanic) had put the pedals on back to front.  So she’d had no chance to familiarise herself with her snazzy new steed since its repair, and was therefore spectacularly brave to undertake her longest ride ever, on an unknown machine!  Amazing Annie Absinthe.

Adding a few unnecessary miles to the day’s tally, we arrived embarrassingly late for our rendezvous at the gates of the OU despite having set out in plenty of time.  A motley crew of assorted OU bods stood shivering in the breezy spring shade as this lumpen loon careened apologetically into their midst with Amazing Annie close behind.  Muttered apologies and hasty introductions didn’t endear us to our fellow cyclists I’m sure.  Curse you Milton Keynes and your nondescript, point-of-reference-free geography.  

Steven and Mark shuffled off with the OU Publicity peopIe to record interviews and whatnot, and ultimately we all set off close to an hour later than intended.  Still racked with guilt at holding up proceedings – I resolved to be as little further trouble on the journey as humanly possible.

We cycled away from the OU Campus and maddening Milton Keynes into the most perfect spring day you could ever hope for.  A gentle breeze cooled our physical efforts, while the countryside yielded views bursting with burgeoning greenery and blossom.  Hedgerows paraded perfumed blackthorn, fields hosted gambolling lambs and ruminants surveyed our little gang with bovine indulgence.  Every now and then a pretty village punctuated nature’s bounty … thatched cottages nestled fetchingly and church spires pointed at the azure heavens.   

Cycling in these fantastic conditions has to be one of life’s greatest pleasures, and as we pedalled along in line, I sang quietly to meself.   Mark would occasionally draw parallel with one of us for a chat,  gleefully ignoring the highway code and enraging assorted hooting motorists. "This is better than being in the office innit?" he grinned. 

Most of the roads were excellent, although we did hit one part where the surface appeared to be knobbly like a giant flapjack.  Which reminded me ... Mark was carrying CAKE.  As plans had morphed so much during the previous evening, I ended up being the only one who didn’t eat something around dinnertime (although Annie’s last repast had consisted of midget gems) … so by the time we hit the road I hadn’t eaten for the best part of 24 hours.  Oops.

When we reached Leighton Buzzard late morning, I hurled myself off magicbike and into ‘On a Roll’ … free-range egg mayo on granary saved my life (I sneaked a croissant into me pannier for later).  I couldn’t have pedalled another centimetre without refuelling, despite plentiful blubber reserves, I was really running on empty.   Fortunately, the others all gratefully grabbed grub ‘n’ all … with Mark, particularly bravely, opting for a Firecracker Chicken filling. 

The next main stop was just outside Hemel Hempstead … Steven offered us a break as we cycled beside meadowy commonland, and we all collapsed gratefully in the lush grass.  Mark kindly dispensed restorative flapjacks.  We were about half way … but already low on water.

We set off again, and once in Hemel proper, came to that most bewildering manifestation of townplanners’ dark arts … a magic roundabout.   Imagine a big roundabout encircled by baby roundabouts, which means you can turn right at any junction and go round one of the baby roundabouts.  Well, the UniCyclist was having none of it, and treated the whole thing as one big normal roundabout, setting off round the main hub.  Us three dared to turn right and on to the London Road.  But in the process … lost the UniCyclist.  We waited a bit, expecting him to glide into view … but no.  Embarrassing.  The whole point of the cycle ride, and we’d lost ‘im.  I pedalled back to the roundabout, and there he was, mystified as to how we hadn’t cycled past him.  Restoring our messiah to his disciples we headed off again to find water.

All bottles refilled, I cracked open a light-sabre sized tube of jelly beans, and filled everyone’s hot little fists with multi-coloured handfuls of sugar rush.  And off we set again, until Mark’s bike rack suffered metal fatigue which no glucose could alleviate, but our great leader produced gaffer tape from his groaning panniers and effected a surprisingly sturdy repair.

Underway once more, we skirted the M25, through Kings Langley and on to Watford and its multiple carriageway one-way system – a test for motorists, but an extreme cycling challenge for us.  Thrilled at our survival we pushed on to Bushey.

And THE HILL.

Shamefully, I was the weakest cyclist of our little band.  Mark was a wiry, whippet-thin, muscle-bound paragon of fitness (and our junior by some years).  Steven, a big bear of a man, had the strength of body and mind to keep going no matter what, and Annie resolutely pushed steadily on through.  I was an underperforming fat fool.   I started off managing two out of three hills, but suddenly found that whilst I didn’t flag on the flat at all, any incline beyond a certain level meant I had to bloody well walk.  Wimp.  No matter my mental determination, my legs went on cycling-strike on hills, agreeing only to plod up 'em.  Annie joined me occasionally on foot uphill … happily we were never too far behind the boys, and we hoped they enjoyed the recovery time our catching up afforded.

But THE HILL in Bushey was a cracker.  It went on and on and on.  And then on.   I was off magicbike within moments, but Mark and Steven … on they pedalled, slowly but unwaveringly.  Magnificent.    

The countryside had slowly petered out,  gradually surrendering  to ugly urban sprawl.  At Stanmore we hit the A5 which heads straight into London and becomes the Edgware Road running up to Marble Arch.   Unfamiliar outlying reaches of the capital rolled by under our tyres … Colindale, Cricklewood (time for that croissant and jelly bean rations for the others) ... Hendon … suddenly the sign said 'Kilburn' … although I’m a south Londoner, this was known territory, I felt the hair on my neck stand up … we were unquestionably going to make it, and there wasn't very far to go.  The traffic increased - both human and vehicular.  The smells of assorted food outlets greeted our nostrils.  Turkish, Nepalese and indefinable but salivation-inducing whiffs tantalised us as we pedalled the last few miles.  Outdoor cafés buzzed with folk enjoying the year's first day of warm sunshine, and we whipped in and out of slow-moving traffic, jumping lights like seasoned couriers.

Steven was due to be reunited with his girlfriend, The Lovely Nina, at Trafalgar Square at 7 p.m. … a little after 6, we weaved through the traffic at Marble Arch and pulled over in Hyde Park where Steven generously furnished us with ice cream cornets. Mark opened the cake tin his colleague, Ashley, had filled with perfect, homemade chocolate cupcakes … the ride had reduced them to rather squidged (but still scrumptious) treats.

Annie and I had plans for the evening as we were anxious not to keep Steven from Nina’s tender mercies, but we decided it would be churlish not to join them for at least a drink near Trafalgar Square … so the four of us set out from Marble Arch to Nelson’s Column, zipping through the back streets (where roadworks allowed) and winding up overlooking the sadly, dry fountains.  Steven collected The Lovely Nina and we all repaired to The Salisbury on St. Martin’s Lane for a well-earned libation.

What a day!  55-60 miles of companionable cycling in exquisite weather through the glorious English countryside … does life get any better?  A mere pinprick in Steven the UniCyclist’s intended journey to 50 capitals in Europe, covering a potential 25,000 miles – the circumference of the Earth ... but a very special day we were privileged to enjoy! 

You should've come along ... you were invited ... shame ... bet you can't even remember what you did last Wednesday ...  ;-) 

I hope you’ll follow our intrepid hero, Steven Primrose-Smith's progress at:

www.unicycle50.com

and you might also like to ‘Like’ UniCycle50’s facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/home.php#!/pages/UniCycle50/112947548762679

 - there you’ll also find some photos of our little journey.

Milton Keynes Paradise Lost

Final Blog Proper - Part 1 of 2 (This time last week - Tuesday, April 5th)

Despite the grey, blustery, chilly weather, I arrived in Milton Keynes the afternoon before the big bike ride to London full of the joys of spring; brimming with excitement for the evening’s banter and bonding session ahead.   Although we were a man down, having lost Fiona the Hamstermaster to Jaws 5 – ‘Tank Command FAIL’ … surely Annie Absinthe, Steven the UniCyclist and I could ‘ave a laugh?  Couldn't we?

The unlit bikeracks outside the Travelodge looked too like thief-magnets for comfort.  Fortunately no-one on Reception blinked as I wheeled magicbike into the lift and up to the room.   I then skipped off to check out my new environs. 

The skipping soon slowed to a trudge.  Is there a more life-sapping place than Milton Keynes?  If so, please don’t ever let me find it.   I can’t even think how to adequately describe the unyielding squareness, the relentless dullness and lack of human scale employed in designing this grim city.  Hopefully the people who live and work here see this desolate place through a different lens.  As a perennial optimist, Milton Keynes came as an unexpected shove over the border into the gloomiest pessimism imaginable.

Then came the phonecall from our esteemed leader, Steven the UniCyclist.  Having spent the last few days battered by pitiless wind and rain, cycling down the country from the Isle of Man, he cried off a meet-up pleading crushing exhaustion.   Not at all unreasonable, but the seeping misery with which Milton Keynes was infusing my brain turned to a steady flow.  I dragged myself back to the Travelodge and sought the help of facebookers to find an activity other than chucking meself off the nearest multi-storey car park.  Exhorting a sortie to the pub, little did they understand ... Milton Keynes has none of these basic human amenities - not because it’s a dry town, but because … well, I don’t actually know why … perhaps because the town planners simply hated people.   I mean really, really hated people.

At last the evening hour of Annie Absinthe’s delayed arrival from Warrington drew near, and I set out for the station … but unconfident of my unfamiliar surroundings, decided to check with a lone passerby whether I was headed in the right direction.  He completely ignored me.  It was as if I didn’t exist.   In that moment, I wished I didn’t.

When Annie finally appeared through the barrier, I clutched her warmly and perhaps a little desperately, looked her in the eye and said “we have to get out of here”.  We fled by train to Leighton Buzzard, an attractive little market town brimming with pubs (or so my  husband had assured me, anxious to help me escape MK's wretchedness).

Stepping out of Leighton Buzzard Station we found ourselves in an exquisitely English version of ‘The Wire’.  Leaning nonchalantly against a silver Daewoo Matiz stuffed with spotty youth, a gangly lad asked insouciantly: “Would you be needing any crack or, um, anything?”

This cheered us immensely, and we set off laughing on a small pub crawl, which included a lovely nuzzle with a big cuddly pub sheepdog.  Weirdly, we were the only women in any of the pubs, we suspected some sort of Stepford Wives scenario to explain the lack of birds (Leighton Buzzards?) – but the locals were friendly and our faith in humanity was restored.  

Until we went to catch the train back to MK.  The departure board said Platform 3, the train pulled in on Platform 1 … we ran … the driver saw us … and closed the doors in our face as the rain fell steadily on our gasping chops.  Being charitable, perhaps he was trying to spare us spending the night in the dreaded Milton Keynes.

Eventually, we made it back to Gulag MK Travelodge, ready to ride out next day ...

Where There's a Wheel ...

Final Blog

Enough tripe, I won't bore you with my version of the day's bike ride ... have summat from a proper blogger and the man himself ... I give you, Steven Primrose-Smith, the UniCyclist ... (generous buyer of reviving ice-creams for cycling companions ... photos at the UniCycle50 page on Facebook) ...

http://unicycle50.blogspot.com/2011/04/battle-to-trafalgar.html

Follow his further adventures at www.unicycle50.com

Fish and Chimps

Blog No. 16 of 17

I've had a text from fellow pedaller Fiona the Hamstermaster.  It seems she may have to cry off tomorrow's ride due to a gippy tummy.  Acquired, she claims, when she was cleaning out a fish tank and accidentally drank some of the water.   My translation ... Fiona can't come out to play because she's been licking the fish tank.  I suppose I should be grateful she's progressed from bus windows.

Annie Absinthe on the other hand, is a higher ape, and has had her bike fixed.  She's in the bag.  So at least there are two of us.  I'm not counting on the UniCyclist himself turning up, with my luck, it's almost too much to ask.

Good news: I picked up magicbike last night, I've found my bike helmet and my stiff neck has ameliorated sufficiently for me to be confident of turning me head - always useful when you're cycling.  However, when I took magicbike for a quick spin, I found the seat twists left and right quite alarmingly, so I've just popped to the bike shop and demonstrated my turning saddle problem.  With a withering look, the surly gentleman assured me this is 'normal in this kind of bike and only to be expected'.  Maybe I should credit him for his self-control in the face of my ignorance, he surely meant to say:

"Madam, as far as I'm concerned, you can swivel."

Anyhoo ... I'm nothing if not ... well, I'm nothing, but that's not important.  Put it this way, I'm persistent.  I'm packed and loaded, including a pair of borrowed cycling shorts from the inestimable bike lender Emma.   She assures me the extra padding in the tuppence area is vital, but I'm fairly convinced the elastication around my Russian-shotputter-on-extra-rations thighs will have me empathising with Douglas Bader within a couple of miles.

Pip pip.  I'm going over the top ...

Kind Hearts and Coronaries

Blog no. 15 of 17 (or thereabouts)

It's all going terribly well.  I'm moving like C3P0 with a limp, I've lost my bike helmet, Southern Railways have no record of my booking to Milton Keynes and magicbike is 30 miles away from where I need it to be.   Not to mention, co-cyclist Annie Absinthe's chain has broken.  I think I might be brewing a heart attack.

To add insult to injury ... well, injuries ... you can't quite be bothered to come along on this piffling 55-mile bike ride.  I've invited you repeatedly, promising a warm welcome, but no ... you prefer to stay safe in front of the computer in your underwear, or your wife's underwear, or no underwear ... actually I'm going to stop thinking about what you might be wearing ... but if it's my cycle helmet, bloody give it back.

I thought I could reassure you with tales of how safe England's roads are for cyclists and went to that bastion of all things bicycley, Cycling England ... look, just look what I found:

Cycling England ceased to exist as a public body on 1 April 2011.

Cycling England was the independent expert body that advised on the promotion of cycling.

If it weren't for the fact that they must've known of their own demise for some time, I'd be inclined to take it personally. 

You stay right at home.  I'd look up the statistics for mishaps there, but they're probably dismantling the Royal Society for the Prevention of Accidents as I type.

Of course you don't have to come, it's ok.  May I ask you something though?  If you won't join the communal ride for UniCycle50 ... will you at least sponsor the UniCyclist, Steven Primrose-Smith?  This is the only time I'll mention the money thing, honest, but I know you're kind-hearted and would like to help really - it's just the cycling thing that's put you off.  Steven's doing his 20,000+ ride on behalf of three charities, so there might be one you'd be prepared to shell out for - even just a quid would help.  Go to http://www.unicycle50.com/, click on the 'Donate' link on the left hand side and pick one of the charities.  Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease. 

I've blogged previously about the Blood Pressure Association, so 'ere's a mere link 
http://www.bpassoc.org.uk/.  

Steven's second charity is Action for Animals, run by his girlfriend, The Lovely Nina, who devotes her time to raising funds for animal rescue projects in England and Spain 
http://www.actionforanimals.org/.    

His third charity is OUSET .   This is the charitable arm of the Open University, which helps ensure access to higher education for people without the means to fund it themselves.  I have a friend who's a really worthwhile recipient of help from OUSET, and it's totally transformed her life.  Claire Brierley worked on the line at the Bally shoe factory in Lancashire, but last year, thanks to OUSET, she completed her undergraduate degree in Psychology, and is now doing postgraduate training to be a teacher.  She loves the Open University so much, and is such an advocate, she's even persuaded her friends to take up courses too - education's changed her life, she's determined to show others how they can improve their prospects too.    She is simply one of the most effervescent and inspirational people I've ever met, her future pupils will love her and in turn be inspired to learn - an incredible gift 

http://www.open.ac.uk/ousa/ouset.php                                                                                                                      

I hate asking for money, I really do ... but as you can see, it's not for me, it's for three good causes.  I know you'll have doling-out-dosh fatigue after Comic Relief and a seemingly endless raft of natural disasters, but I don't want to have to come round your house and pat your pockets or anything, so, please, spare a nicker or two and I'll leave you in peace.  Right.  Schtum. 

I'm off to pick up magicbike now, with a very, very simple bike rack for the car.  Why aren't I cycling the 30 miles home?  Why would I cycle that far when I don't have to? 
I'll save that kind of pointless exercise for Wednesday. 

Smack Me Up, My Bitch

Blog No. 14 of 17 (or thereabouts)

Today I went fell running.  Alright, alright ... I fell running.  As I pounded the undulating, bluebelled slopes of Whippendell Woods, Small dog in my wake was spooked by a huge Weimeraner, ran blindly after me ... and felled me.  Bless the little feller.  Down I went, like a sack of spuds, in a perfect Peter Griffin tribute - face first.  Bleeding lightly, I was righted by the Weimeraner's concerned owners and I carried on running *cocks ear for admiring gasps*.  Returning to base, muddied and bloodied, I showered and examined the damage.  Grazed: knees, arm, cheek and hands ... swelling and bruising in latter two (ameliorated by bag of frozen peas).  I could either be mistaken as having one cheek implant, or possibly as just returning from a date with Phil Tufnell.

Undaunted, I headed to Howard and Emma's to try out Emma's magic bike.  Turns out it is indeed magic, and I wish it for my trusty steed as we ride out with the good Sir Steven, most noble UniCyclist of http://www.unicycle50.com/ fame.  The bike is blameless in the short episode of carrying required today, during which I sprained my thumb.  On the trial ride, I took a wrong turn and ended up in an unfamiliar one-way system underpass - escapable only by climbing some blasted steps *gives thumbs up and winces*.

Howard kindly lent me a bike rack to attach magicbike to the car, but without instructions, it appears to require similar technical savvy to building a space station.  It seems it is yer actual rocket science, and although, spookily, Howard works with rocket scientists, he isn't one.  And nor am I. 

So the bike remains in the distant reaches of the northest of north London ... while I'm setting out from deepest, darkest, southest of south London - the day after tomorrow.   Oh goody.  It's all starting to get a bit too Raiders of the Lost Ark for my liking.  Impediment after challenge after snafu.  If I'd wanted the 12 challenges of Hercules, I'd've changed my name by deed poll ... to, um, Hercules. 

And so to bed ... with painkillers ... it's all going swimmingly doncherknow.  Trouble is, it needs to go cyclingly *sigh*.

Egrets, I've Had a Few

Blog No. 13 of 17 (or thereabouts)

I've narrowed it down to 6 options for getting out of this bike ride (you know, the 55-miles, Milton Keynes to London next Wednesday, April 6th ... the one you're shirking). 

Feasible excuses boil down to:

a) illness

b) feigned illness

c) bike theft
d) alien abduction

e) my death

f)  the UniCyclist's death

As I don't actually wish for four of those, and alien abduction's a long shot, it's going to have to be b).   I fully realise that fate may actually opt for one of the others, but I'm not tempting it, really I'm not.  So, I've scoured medical websites for something dramatic and worthy of exclusion from a gruelling bike ride, which is also sufficiently plausible and couldn't result in cajoling-despite-sickliness ... and it turns out I'm going to have amoebic dysentry.  Of all the things a group of cyclists really don't want, the list must surely be topped by a companion with a spectacularly explosive botty.

Just in case I bottle a wimpout though, the exercise regime continues.  Today, a full-on power-walk in the backwaters of Hertfordshire, along a little used river path where I watched a great deal of macho mallard action.  Ducks duffing each other up to show the females who's top dog, er, duck.  Sheesh, talk about ruffling feathers - it's brutal.  She had better be brilliant in (river)bed.  Then I saw an egret, big elegant thing it was, none of yer laddish behaviour, and for a moment I was in the rainforest in Africa and Big dog and Little dog were truly the wildebeeste and hyena they resemble.  Hello spring, after that winter, you're unbelievably welcome.

I may have mentioned a growing hatred for my bike.  The good news is, I've just blagged me dad-in-law's old bike (no, not my mum-in-law) ... it must be a good 20 years younger than my ebay-acquired boneshaker, with a wealth of gears and considerably less rusty.  The only minus?  Smaller wheels.  I do so like a big-wheeled bike - ergonomically, it means I don't have to work as hard.  Bonus.

Well, whaddya know?  This evening, that bike offer's been superseded by one from my lovely mate, Emma, maker of fine jewellery and bizarre culinary experimenter supreme (homemade baked beans anyone?).  She and her bike-nut husband, Howard the Gruffalo, have spent our get-together waxing lyrical about Emma's superb roadbike - if I remember rightly it requires almost no effort, self-repairs, makes tea and can fly.   So, while you're all tucking into your Sunday roasts or fumbling blindly for a hangover cure, I'll be roadtesting what sounds like the most perfect bike in the world ever.  Amoebic dysentry be damned, I might just make this blasted ride after all.