LEJOG - It's a grand day for ducks..

I departed with the cool feel of northern rain on my apprehensive back.  It felt like I was on my way back home.  The sharp sting of cold water on determined legs and worried brow drove me to push to the end of the day...

'Great day for Ducks' I said to another biker on the way into Preston.  'Apparently for fish aswell' he says.  And I would not disagree.  Aretha Franklin was on the radio singing 'Think' whilst I ate a healthy breakfast; a song that fits perfectly with the LEJOG journey.

The first drops appeared as I loaded the panniers onto the 5 bar gate.  The ride started with slight rain around Wybunbury jut south of Nantwich.  However, by the time I arrived in Stretton just south of Warrington it was absolutely bucketing it down.  I had tried wearing my waterproof over trousers earlier but took them off as all they did was cling wetly to my hard working legs (yeah not waterproof) and kept jamming in the 5 bar gates chainwheel.  The waterproof cycling jacket isn't so everything was drenched.

Places to the west of major cities have not been nice places.  Whether the A442 which tried to eat me a rather large hors d'oeuvre for breakfast to the west of Birmingham.  Or the rat runs and smashed streets to the west of Manchester.

I ride along the soaked banks of the river Weaver and again curse the crap nav for finding the best assault course route north.  And the local council who think it a great idea to put impossible gated barriers to cyclist every half mile because surely sir would want to get off his 5 bar gate again and repeatedly manhandle it as though it was a greasy cow at an underwater rodeo.

I stop in the middle of anywhere shouting expletives at the crap nav having temporarily woken Ma Boy after smashing his bedroom door into an iron gate.  A wet and shiny PCSO (police community support officer) wanders over and asks, 'Do you need help?  Where are you going?'  I tell her about the disastrous idea that one day I might make it to JOG and with wide eyes she says 'Wow!, Really? ... Both of you?'

Bernie was from Perth.   Another Aussie!  A look around and there he is.  'Where are you going' says I.  'LEJOG?  Really!'  Two lost souls with the same intent swimming in the same deep murky watery soup of ground up rubber, dead leaves and twigs.  I'm trying to get to Preston.  Bernie into Manchester.  Both of us to stay with good friends who want to give us a dry bed to help us on our way.

It was a quick hello then goodbye as I rode off in a different direction swearing at the crap nav.  And 3 minutes later when I had stopped selfishly thinking about myself I had the 'bugger' moment realising again that the chance of bumping into someone on the same journey but on a completely different route was just so rare.  I chastise myself for running away.  I'm all pruny and wet.

I'd been stood at another lay-by burger van pouring a bacon sarnie and some warm tea to a patient Audrey II when bugger me, Bernie rolls up.  Yay!  It's only at this point I find out his name (being I was and angry ignorant self centred prat only 15 minutes earlier).

What is it with me and Aussies on bikes in that the first swift hello later turns into a more meaningful celebratory discussion.  We're both exceedingly wet in a way that Mr Kipling might approve of.  Bernie tells me of his smashed derailleur and of losing his high vis but also of the life affirming fact that people are there, complete strangers, who without being asked pass a virtual cup of something good for free / gratis / nix to help them on their torturous journey.

We try to ride together for a moment on the narrow sodden road but cannot and after a fleeting moment together again we part with well wishes to each other and a perhaps we might meet again..

Here he is..

The roads around Warrington and Wigan are slimy hard brutish things, like some of the people who will not give an inch and will always take a risk with an overtake quick swinging out into the opposite lane after passing me.  Full of fast white vans and and even faster skip trucks.  The children waiting at the bus stops shout abuse at this particular fatman.  For they do not know where I have come from nor where I am going.  I'm just another low and slow target on a hilly climb for children who's ambition in life is to play hard knocks rugby league. This is a hard place.  Drab wet weeds amongst the sprawling concrete and brick estates that never end.  Birds don't live here any more.

My size 11 shoes are now size 15 bags of water.  I'm singing to myself 'stop the bus I want a wee wee' as though through osmosis alone this salty bacon butties of a man has taken on a gallon.  I see a sign that says recycling centre so I stop and say to the man in the wet hi vis 'which skip can I wee wee in please mate?' and he says 'Yer wot?'.  I say 'you know, so my wee wee can be recycled like Yorkshire water do back home with it...'.  With a quizzical look he goes away and comes back with a rather small bucket and says 'use this mate....'

The route to Preston reintroduces the greenery and the birds which sing gloriously at the rain.  I turn up at Di and Ian's house as though I have a full on shower head strapped to my back, wringing wet and all drip like and I'm taken in with warm hands and hearts and bacon and egg sarnies and looked after for the night...

Today its the Cumbrian pennines.  The sun is shining.  I feel like I'm back home....