Never say never, Wayne.

I'm in the 3rd bike shop today looking for the bits I need to fettle my old Dawes Audax Giro.

I'm amazed at just how basic some of the bike shops here in York have become.  Gone are the days where as a lad I'd wander down the street to Boswell's bike shop with pocket money in hand.  What that man didn't have for a bike could be written on the back of a fag packet.  Inner tubes, tyres, frames, handlebars, crank sets, pedals, etc...  Yes of course, all the main bike parts but also little gem parts for derailleurs and wheels, a selection of varied length stems, bottom bracket ball bearing sets with small tubes of grease;  fine springs and all the fripperage anyone might need to put an old cronk (1) back on the road.

Initially I went to York Cycleworks.  It's a big new shop in Fulford.  Plenty of new shiny stuff hung up on the walls.  Too much of it nowadays battery powered methinks.  I wander across to the service desk and say 'perhaps you might have an extra long quill stem and some handlebars thank you please?'.  Er no he said.  Oh I thought, it's the biggest bike shop in York but do not have?  Bugger it!  Not a good start.

Next stop was Halfords.  Yeah, they do bikes don't they?  Er, perhaps but frippery?  No they don't.  Similar to the first place I see that they only have the skeletal remains of the unwanted bikes in these Covid times hung up on the wall but nothing anyone might need to get a cronk back on the road.  Er, I think this is gonna become an on line shopping job.  

Bugger again.  I knew of one more place so with no sense of success I parked the car and wander in.  It's a rundown place bereft of staff as most of the boys are at home self isolating due to non-adult behaviour which has given them the bug.  It's a hard life riding bikes.  

I mooch around pushing the cobwebs aside and peek into its darkest corners.  Wielding a machete, I slice my way through the old plastic waterproofs into a dark damp corner where the smelly saddle seats and garish socks are stored. It has a musty dank odour about it.  To my surprise I find, lit in a halo of gold light, an extra long 22.2 mm quill stem [perfect] hung on an old dusty black mesh rack with a set of black handlebars beneath.  Going by how the paper label's ink has faded and has started to brown I recon it has been in this dark corner since before the invention of bar codes and the banning of brown dust coats in corner shops.  

I grab it and run.  I'm chased out of the store by a rather large ball shaped bloke.  As I whizz past the poison dart loaded counter top I drop 50 quid which stops the ball shaped bloke with a squeak of tyre rubber and away I waddle with a big beamy smile.  I exit the shop into bright sunlight and find myself fighting past racing snakes to get back into the car to fly home.  I hate snakes!  That afternoon I set about converting my old Dawes Audax pre Arc of the Covenant Giro bike into a magnetic trainer for the Nazi, sorry nasty winter to come.  

If you ever see me with a pair of wire cutters in my hand please take them off me.  Cos I'm an idiot.  To change the handlebars I needed to remove brake and gear cables to free everything up.  Easy says I, I'll just chop the cables cos I'm going to replace them anyway then I can fit the new stem and handlebar.  Ting! Ping!, go the cables as I chop cos this bodger forgot of the spring tensions in the front and rear derailleur mechanisms both of which now sprang back into their highest positions, so that is the smallest chainwheel and cassette gears.  Crap.  Crossed gears.  Fecking idiot.  Fettling gone wrong.  I truly am a bodger.  

Anyway a bit of brain re-engagement and unintended playing with the oily gears gets the bike back in a working condition for the indoor winter riding to come.  I get on it and start to gently turn the pedals to test it.  I close my eyes and begin to rhythmically dream.  Of a leg powered musical box, which in my mind is now playing the tunes from my childhood, where the top of my head opens and out pour the ideas again.  

Such shows from my childhood have left me with a lifelong fear of clowns and can openers; and, for sure I'm not thinking about Mr Dagenham anymore.  No, I now have a new image burnt into my brain; of Hitler sans moustache working at Camberwick Green's local TESCO store pointing with great enthusiasm and proclaiming with huge euphoria that all the best stuff is on the top shelves! 

Worryingly, what did come out of my box today was another even madder thought, something quite stupendous for a fat 58 year old cyclist.  That perhaps I should plan to ride New Zealand, yes all 2500 miles of it for my 60th Birthday!

I'm mad.  Really?  Which fecking part of your brain dreamt that little pearler up?  Remember how you were yesterday fatty after almost 50 miles on the bike out towards Easingwold into a nasty headwind then across to Wetherby and then back home via Tadcaster?  Remember trying to get up off the sofa later that evening with both knees screaming GERROFF! as you loaded 20 or so stones of blubber onto them.  Ooohh!  Is cycling actually doing me any good?  Also, please don't forget the cramp on the ride after only 6 miles and the constant need to carefully watch the fluid intake to make sure you didn't start cycling like a Nazi stormtrooper or marching like a member of TESCO's customer service team.  

Perhaps.  It might be do'able?  If I do only 40 to 50 miles per day which is a little less than the LEJOG and NC500 things then maybe?  Box the bike up for transport to Auckland.  Yep.  Leave the box in storage at the airport.  Aha.  Take yer time and use a tent.  Gotcha.  You are retired now aren't ya so what's the rush?  Take 60 days or so?  Perhaps the peril that is Covid will be gone by then?  Perhaps.

I remember some 15 or so years ago riding my motorbike across the very top of Scotland.  Whilst parked up in a small layby near Loch Eriboll I watched a tour cyclist cycle past with his other half some 50 yards or so behind, her head down grinding hard on the pedals into a stiff headwind.  I'm sure she was cursing ever marrying the mad fecker.   Finally, finding myself on the same section of wind swept cold rainy road some 13 years later on my Koga bike with a cold wet London Alan following me some 50 yards or so behind into a stiff headwind cursing the day he ever met this mad fat fecker.

Yes I dreamt of it back then and finally did it last year.   Theres not going to be many more pain free biking years ahead and I'm damn sure that charging points in the New Zealand wilderness are few and far between.  So there is no way I can wait 13 years nor look for an ebike solution to make the challenge any easier.   

Get yer finger out old bean.  Start to plan for it.  Get a new bike?  Perhaps a Surly which should be good for on and off road.  It has low gearing and loads of points for connecting racks and luggage.  Yeah, I've always wanted another bike!

For sure I don't have a crystal ball but like the time I have been retired (3 years and 6 months and counting), the 2 years to my 60th will absolutely fly by.

Never say never Wayne.  You're 58.  Don't wait another 13 years before you decide to not do it!

(1) Cronk.  Noun.  An old bike or a Howard.  Both need fettling to get them back on the road; the latter also needs strong springs or an ejector seat fitted to his ancient high backed chair to get his arse out of his man cave at least once per year.