C2C - Hands, Knees and a Bumsadaisy!

That was a lovely meal last night.  We met up with Hairy Jane, you know, the Bingley Fakir and his better half Fi, his partner come ex-private nurse.  Phwoarr!  A private Nurse!  Say no more, say no more eh John me lad, ma boy, me old cocker, nudge nudge wink wink know what I mean?  Say - no - more!

Bingley is an old cattle town on the banks of the Rio Grande (the river Aire actually).  We're in the Brown Cow saloon, famous for its extensive collection of meat pies.  I grab the menu and spot the pie.  Mmmmm.  A proper cow pie.  Yum.  Cow pie everyone?  Cow pie?  Yes?  Yes?  Except for Hairy Jane who whilst perusing the menu spots the freshwater crab, calls her over and asks her to describe the whole bloody menu and the contents of her drinks cabinet too.  Which, for some reason reminded London Alan to wash his fanny before he uses it again.  

For me it's a cheesy mess starter or something, followed by steak pie and bits and finally another eating mess or something like that.  London Alan, without asking, lifts his plate and slides a large piece of his pie onto my plate.  The whole saloon goes quiet with everyone looking at the new fat bloke in town on his second piece of pie!  I heard them whisper... 'Ooh!, It's Desparate Dan... on a bike!...' 

After dinner we played cards: poker, five card stud and snap!  Whilst Hairy was sucking on a stogie we regaled him of just how impressive we thought the Five Rise Locks were and of London Alan's 'towelling off' story - you know, the long version...  The table started to shake.  For some reason Hairy threw in his hand, grabbed Fi by her apron strings and shot out of the saloon with the doors flapping in their wake.  No idea why the rush?  He just couldn't wait to get back home to bed I guess... Must be tired...

I awoke only to conclude as I stood up that both of my knees must have snuck out to the saloon's bins and choffed on the broken glass bottles overnight.  Ooohhh!  The small cuts on my hand from my building work, which are taking an age to heal, were again stinging being that they'd either been gripping hard onto my pump; or to the world's mankiest set of handlebars.  When it's dry I often find it difficult to take my hands off the reigns as they stick to the toe-jam rather effectively.  But in the wet, well, I often slip off them; and find it difficult to twist the mule into a lower gear cos they're greasier than the insides of South Side Mark's shorts.

My crap nav is awake and still sniggering to itself whilst holding up the scores on the doors after watching the Generation Game old folk for the last 2 days attempt to ride across country on 3 greasy pigs.  So that's just over one hundred miles ridden, just under nine thousand calories climbed and just over six thousand feet eaten. 

The hotel room toilet seat hinge was broken so the only option was to park my bum on the porcelain as I didn't think the shower curtain would have stood a chance if I'd trapped my testicles betwixt the seat and the rim.  Which of course reminded me of the day I took an off road motorbike through a muddy hole, slipped, twisted my foot 180 degrees backwards before dropping the motorbike on my twisted leg and then sitting on the bike.  In both scenarios I was and would be stuck forever screaming my head off until the cavalry arrived.  

I trepidly walked down the stairs like a frightened Dalek and sat down with Mark who had just finished slipping breakfast down his chute.  God that man's fast!  London Alan joined us still dreaming of the days when he used to date a piece of coal in this neck of the woods.  Or something like that.  We all agreed it was a hard days ride yesterday.  As London Alan noted a big day climbing in the mountains for sure.  Not to worry boys today will mainly be flat along the canal towards Leeds, the home of idiots, imbeciles, morons, poachers, rapists, murderers, estate agents, Mel Brooks fans; and the Leeds United Supporters Club (ooh that's being brave, Wayne...)  

Because we only saw the very top of them the previous evening we called in to see the Five Rise Locks again. 

Now don't get me wrong but I now know by the new feeling given to me by my boys, who were fully awake, wide eyed and gripping my thighs tightly as I approached the lock's edge, that I don't have a good head for heights.  Feck in 'ell this is a deep and steep cascade innit?  Similar in design to the Big One (fnar) that London Alan left behind in Blackpool.  My sphincter clenched so tight I could've, if asked, taken the lid off the tightest of jam jars, no problem!

It was an awful core feeling of wobbliness every time I approached the edge of the locks.  Ma boys by now had pulled their draw cords so tight on their sleeping bags that they left me with a pair of walnut shells between my thighs with glued on peep over the edge googley eyes which shook every time I looked down at the big drop into the wet weed encrusted hole.  Funny that, just had an image of one of my old girlfriends pop into my mind.. Hmmm...

In places the ride along the canal was rough.  I must have scared my boys right bad cos there was no way I could sit on my seat and pedal without the lads playing a game of frightened tiddlywinks inside their concrete bunkers.  Well that's what it felt like.  

What a beautiful day!  We bounce along the Leeds to Liverpool canal path in the wrong direction passing other cyclists, walkers, canal boats, fish, ducks, heron's... and dogs.  

All of a sudden there's a Woo! Woo! Woo! ahead.  South Side Mark has been ambushed by an injun; a black haired frightfully large one with sharp teeth which had attempted to take a big bite out of his arse.  You know how it is with dogs and snakes?  I roll up, pat the dog on the head and say, 'Good Boy!'.  Well, the right type of behaviour should always be rewarded shouldn't it?  Mark on the other hand was down.  His helium filled mule was braying and kicking cos its bags had taken the brunt of the scalping.  Poor thing.  But it’s ok really.  There’s no real damage other than slobber marks on South Side Mark’s doodahs.

I see the route 66 sign and know that it goes all the way to York.  So with a harrumph! from the crap nav I turn his guidance off and turn him into a dumb measuring device and follow the blue and white signs in the general direction of York.  

Now I was surprised how fast we got into the centre of Leeds.  I used to work there and so know that it is a busy place.  However, the run in is very similar to the tunnel run out of Stalag 19 'cept there's no Germans around in towers with searchlights and machine guns.    

We find a Costa Coffee.  I go in and being that it is an Italian company (must be with that name?) in my best Mexican disguise say 'Buenos dias my freeend.  Watsamatter you?  Gotta no respect?  Geeve mee dos cafe con leche por favour han ee botel of coka cooolaaaa! Gracias ameegoooo!’.  Simply, South Side Mark is now suffering with the squits so can't eat but can drink coke.  Poor bloke.  How he can ride when feeling crock (no, I said feeling crock), well I dunno.  

Now South Side Mark is a proper racing snake.  Every morning and every evening his feet are surgically attached to / removed from the pedals 'cos it helps him to go faster...'  It gives him the ability to apply power on the upstroke you see?  I understand that Gill is very happy with that cos they ride tandem you know.  But is absolutely no good for me cos my tummy muscles nowadays are stretched out so far that any attempt to add power on an up stroke would result in a Mr Creosote wafer thin mint initiated explosion of stupendous proportions!  

On our way out of Leeds, South Side Mark spots a rather pretty Italian recidivist across the road mincing towards him.  He's smitten and so decides to stop and watch as it walks across the new pedestrian crossing.  All Del Boy like, he raises his water bottle, turns and says to London Alan, 'I'm in here Trigger..'.  As he leans over with soap in hand to say 'Ciao bambino' he completely fails to grasp either the left or the right hand bollard and with feet still attached to the bike falls neatly between the two.  The crap nav sees this and immediately holds up a 10 and gets a cheer and a round of applause from the builders at the roadworks.  He's alright though.  Gets up, curses the fecking pelican crossing for moving at just the wrong time and were quickly away...

We're now to the east side of Leeds and getting closer to home turf.  But hang on a minute.  For a little while now there's been a loose feeling at the back of my bike.  And it's worsened.  My bike now feels like a dog with worms dragging it's arse on the ground.  Aw no - not the fecking Rohloff hub again! 

We stop in a retail park.  I'm off the bike trying to see what’s wrong but also weary that if I stay in this position for too long someone might attempt to park their bike.  Boy have I got a big arse! [and belly and...]

Turns out that the bolts that secure the wheel belt tensioner to the frame had both come undone and were almost out.  Simply the bike had taken a pounding on the rough bridleways and the canal paths which had been exacerbated by the exceptionally lar jarse sat atop the bike.  And simply things have shook loose.  This is the second time this has happened to me - the last time, when only one bolt fell out was on the NC500 some 2 years ago but at least the back end remained firm.  

London Alan.  I apologise.  I've had some fun in the past writing about the need to fettle your bike each time we have been out and ridden like a smug bar steward thinking things and saying to other folk just how GOOD my Koga bike is, just how GREAT it is for touring, how it has NEVER gone wrong.  I am SORRY my friend - not a problem with your bike on this run.  It is time now for me to EAT my words.  Mmmmmm. Woooords!

As we cross a golf course near the 9th hole we're suddenly peppered with balls.  We kinda knew that Hairy Jane was in a golfing tournament in this area today and so supposed that he had spotted us from the 9th tee.  'To hell with the competition' he told the boys, '...the first one to bullseye that fat fecker on the bike gets £100'.  

Route 66 turns into a mix of housing estates, golf courses, bridal ways, old railway tracks and back roads so it wasn't a surprise when we missed our turning.  The crap nav sat there with arms folded looking at me through it's one good eye with a 'you pillock' look on its face.  Nonetheless were back in my territory now and so I can now navigate us in the direction of York.

We're racing along trying to keep ahead of the posse on probably the last very short climb and all of a sudden there's a BANG! and I'm almost thrown across the handlebars.  I grind to a halt.  The carbon fibre belt drive has jumped off the rear sprocket and jammed between it and the frame.  Feck in hell that's the first time that has ever happened.  I get my tool bag out.  No the other one, and 10 minutes later it's fettled.  However, the last 7 miles to home are done under torchlight with me now one oaring it cos my right knee felt like it had blown on the down stroke when the belt let loose.  Oh dear.

Finally were back home.  We sneak up to our hideout for the night, my ‘hole in the wall’ den in the Woodthorpe badlands on the outskirts of Dodge City (York that is).  With my fat cat burglar mask on I break in before I realise it's my house and yes, I have a key.  Idiot.  Pizza is ordered for dinner which is delivered whilst me and South Side Mark get on with trying to fettle the bikes and his rear end.

One more day to go.  Young Brad the Lad will be joining us for the final leg from Dodge to Scarbados on his shopping bike.  The challenge is on.  Can he carry more calories on his bike than I need and can I eat more calories than I'll burn?

Yes we can.  I won't let anyone down... I promise...

Adios Amigos!