C2C - Where's Whalley?
It was a grand night out last night. Hello Ian [my ex boss and first rate Halloween party organiser in Preston] picked us up from the guest house in his Creepy Coupe, an east European Dacia tank, for a curry night on the town. He's an arty 'frying tonite!' type who works on manufacturing life size Star Wars character models with his mega 3D printer in the garage. He'd just finished creating and re-animating his latest Star Wars figurine of Boba Fett. It involved a lot of string and the remains of Jeremy Bulloch which are now hung up in his garage.
I've got to say the old boy has really taken to retirement with a shine. He's thrown out all of his bright Hawaiian clothing and now has a wardrobe full of beige camouflage. He needs to be careful though as it'd be easy to lose him in town. Or on a beach. I wouldn't ever take him to Saltaire, a sandstone edifice named after the fat Victorian philanthropist, Sir Titties Salt - a memorable place that we will eventually pass through on this journey - as we'd lose him forever.
The guy's are starting to understand why I am a fat man. You want a lager? You want a lager? Yes. Yes. etc.. which resulted in 4 being ordered along with an ironing basket full of poppadoms and an order for a 5th beer for me as soon as the first 4 arrive. The guys watch agog as I select enough food from the menu to feed a small Mexican army. When that was polished off I helped London Alan with his Biriyani then gave the plate back to him so that he could lick something a little less spicy than his fanny.
It's Wednesday morning. South Side Mark has beaten me to breakfast and something's gone wrong with London Alan. I get an urgent text apologising for him being late. Today is not the day to have any problems with yer bum Alan cos it's the biggest day. A decision has been made. We're gonna take the shorter hilly route.
I went into Preston's City Church early whilst the boys were asleep to pray to the sat nav Gods. Today's the day we're all gonna have to rely on my crap nav to get us across the Pennines hopefully to Bingley without ending up on motorways, dual carriageways and A roads. And going by past experiences I'm not hopeful we'll get there safe nor unbroken.
As for the alturnative route, you generally cannot go wrong following a canal path. Firstly, it's flatter than a flat thing. Turn left and you're back on the roads. Turn right and you're in the drink. Thinking about London Alan's desires for going off road then yes perhaps the hiller and more direct route is the safer option? For sure he has a low range gearbox now fitted to his bike so what's the problem?
Anyway whilst South Side Mark finished packing his panniers and London Alan goes to the toilet for the 10th time I get on and bring the bikes out of their underground stairway / passageway night store. My bike first. It's a wide horned heavy fecker that brayed and kicked and snorted all the way out of the hole cos I think I accidentally lifted it by its testicles. Followed by South Side Mark's racing machine...
I took a piece of string out of my pocket, tied it to it's handlebars and gently floated it out into the fresh air before tying it to my bike to make sure that it did not float away. Alan's bike was a bit easier than mine. I engaged low range on its new gearbox and rode the damn thing up the stairs, slowly emerging into daylight like a well formed turd into a murky white porcelain bowl. I don't think thats quite the best way to describe Preston but I'm not that far off.
Initially the ride along the river Ribble was pleasant and light with the wind to our rears which was appreciated by London Alan. We're in a huge area of parkland with a 6mph speed limit which only encouraged London Alan to disengage his low range box and speed up. Before we knew it were heading east and uphill in the general direction of Blackburn; a place according to London Alan that is famous for 4000 holes....
Gene Pitney. Now there's a name that could only be remembered if one is talking about any number of things - especially the distance from Tulsa, or number of holes in Blackburn. Geddit? Pitney? Holes? Oh, never mind.
Bloody ear worms. I just couldn't get his song out of my head. I find myself singing 'We’re only 24 hours from Blackburn!' Along with Something's Gotten Hold of my Heart (that'll be the cholesterol then) and I'm Gonna be Strong (that one's for London Alan). Very appropriate music to describe what we should do, where we are going and what is about to happen as with a URK! I might collapse at the side of the road. I have a history of eating more Blackpool rock than Elvis ever did. Uh-huh!
Here's yer man singing like he's been sat on his testicles on a narrow bike seat for 4 days....
London Alan is quite an aficionado of the Beetles. It was, he says, John Lennon's idea to write 'A day in the Life' by combining ideas taken from the newspapers, one of which had an article: "There are 4000 holes in the road in Blackburn..." There was no connection between this and another part of the lyrics about 4000 holes in the Albert Hall; it was just their imagination that made the link we think.
In a letter to Beatles manager Brian Epstein, the Hall’s then chief executive, Mr Ernest O’Follipar told the band that the “wrong-headed assumption that there are four thousand holes in our auditorium” threatened to destroy its business overnight. Because the Beatles refused to remove the reference and apologise for supposed offence caused by the song the committee voted unanimously to ban indefinitely the performance of the song by any artist at the Hall [See 1 below]. See, yer learning summat!
Mark is our outrider. He normally gallops away at the front of the posse watching out for injuns and the like but close enough so that I can see him. Now you know how I've written about the ignorant bar steward racing snake types. It does not matter how pleasant or nice I am with them with a 'Hi', or a 'Hello', or a 'Good Morning' they often keep their chins to the ground with a 1000 yard stare as they slither away at high speed. ssssssssss!
But I notice something today. Every snake that ignores me for some reason always slows down to have a chat with South Side Mark who to all intents is not part of our little group and is dressed like a proper snake. That's it! They're fecking ELITIST! Oh, I'm not good enough to speak to aren't I! Wot, you expected a racing snake to say hello to a Hippo on a bike did ya?? Grrrr. The feckers.
As the day goes on this behaviour becomes even more pronounced. Occasionally I'm in front with South Side Mark in the middle with London Alan somewhere behind and what I hear is 'silence' as he passes me then 'Hi' then ..... 'silence' as the snake finally passes London Alan .
We get to the top of the climb and pause for a drink. I tell the guy's that I am hungry but sadly I had failed to pack my cabbages that day. London Alan has by now towelled himself off so often he's developed a skin rash. 'I have a cream for that' says I but he politely declines. South Side Mark though takes an interest in my new tube of slippy emollient. I understand he is now seriously thinking of buying a towel.
On a fast downhill section we whizz through a village called York [eh? there's another one?], continue along a ridge line, descend and somehow find the western town of Whalley. Most of which had fecked off on holiday to Blackpool. Where's Whalley? Well, forget asking the crap nav. We'd given up on its ramblings and decided to give it a rest. Simply we knew we had cycled east cos the intermittent Sun was on our backs. Here's a photo of Blackpool beach. Can you find Whalley?
For sure it's normally in the hills. We find a saloon for lunch. It is French by name - Deux Amis - and compared to the other saloons in the street which have closed their doors having fecked off to the coast, this is the only one open in this two horse town.
A young filly dressed head to foot in all manner of frilly things dances over and deposits first her svelte stocking and stiletto clad ankle in my lap with a 'Yee Hah!'. Followed by a very pretty menu before turning and flicking her skirt and bum at me as she departed the table with a come-hither look over her left shoulder. Hmmm, I wonder, is that just a very French way of asking me if I could lend her some bum cream? Yes of course I could. Wide eyed, I lick my pinky in anticipation of being asked to help with the application of my emollient, but sadly not. So I peruse the menu. It is covered in French words for all sorts of things like, oeufs poche avec pomme frites, deux oeufs poche avec pommes frites, saucisse de porc avec oeufs poche avec pomme frites..., etc. etc..
She greases back over much to the delight of South Side Mark and I say, 'sorry love I don't like any of this French muck', to which she replies with a smile: 'Oui Monsieur we af ow you say, ze egg and chips n'est-ce pas?' 'Okay that'll do for me' says I. Egg and chips everybody? But London Alan is now carried away with the whole experience of finding a French saloon in the middle of a western hill town and so wants to go the full hog and so says: 'No no, not for me. Bonjour Mademoiselle, Je would like to ave ze oeufs frit avec pommel allumettes, s'il vous plait'…
We climb back on our tired horses and look up to what appears to be an airport runway bent double climbing towards the clouds. With bellies full of egg and chips up we go. And up. And up. Because we'd put the crap nav in Jail we eventually find ourselves at the bottom of a short but steep three sequential single chevron climbs. That's three 14 to 20% uphills. London Alan starts to whimper. South Side Mark stands up in his pedals and.. Voom! He's gone!
I decide to follow London Alan up the narrow grade, bent double, wobbling left to right, rasping and gasping for air! London Alan drops dead and falls off his horse. All I can hear is the fast loud beating of my heart which by the sounds of it had hidden itself away in the gap between my ears. Suddenly, there's a PAAAARRRPPP!!! not more than 3 inches off my back wheel!
Jesus! I suddenly hit 10mph on the climb and shit myself! What the feck!?!? Slowly this fecking electric car glides past narrowly missing the new brown line on the road with the passenger window open. All I hear is her shout 'I'm sorry, I just wanted to let you know that I was there!' Feck me! I somehow managed to calm my testicles down having immediately taken to running everywhere inside of me trying to find the safe room.
I had to plough on, into the second, and then the third climb. With my pump gripped tight in my hands and with a fanfare of trumpets I surfaced like Moby Dick gasping through its blowhole [of course that's another nasty cycling initiated problem which I will write about later]. But why did that fecking idiotic driver in her silent 'designed to scare pedestrians and cyclists to death' machine sneak up on me? Women drivers huh? Well I guess if I had died it would've been the least messy way of being killed by an electric car.
The final major climb for the day takes us to the top of the Pennines onto High Windhill. Yes it is.
For sure the wind is a blast in the middle of our backs and it starts to rain. We aquaplane at high speed down hill into the backside of Silsden. Nobody wants to ride down into the backside of Silsden! Finally! We're back in Yorkshire!!
Cycling jackets come out for the first time and we plough on through the world's worst wet traffic, most of which is pressed hard up against the curbs. Five minutes later we join the Leeds Liverpool canal, again in the wrong direction. The rain has stopped so off come the jackets. The canal path is a lumpy bumpy affair still waiting for the tarmac to be laid. Nonetheless it's the first flat we've seen since Preston. My testicles and arse start to moan. However my knees let out a rather loud 'phew'.
We enter the swanky Five Rise Locks hotel. I pull my Covid mask over my mouth and nose and pull my helmet down over my eyebrows. With a menacing growl and with pump in hand I shout, 'Put yer hands up Gringo! This is a stick up!'. To which the hotel owner says 'And a very nice stick it is too. Going fishing in the canal are we? Breakfast is at 7...'
Why isn't anyone taking me seriously? Ok then. I sling my saddle bags over my shoulder and with pump in hand wobble up the gently sloping knee friendly stairs to my room.
Tomorrow is an easier day for sure. A nice canal side glide into Leeds then Route 66 and finally the back roads to York.
We're about half way there...
Buenas notches Amigos!
[1] How many seats are there in the Royal Albert Hall? The maximum seating capacity is 5,272. For most events, the seating capacity is listed at 3,951. Which would mainly be middle / upper class toffs. I think the lads deliberately missed the prefix 'A' from the Albert Hall holes reference... Nuff said eh?
You definitely have a complex about racing snakes and clearly this ride did nothing to alleviate it ;-)
ReplyDeleteI was in tears reading this latest installment as it humorously jogged my memory as to the events of day 2 in the saddle.
I am keen to see the peloton of 20 plus riders just to hear the Morse code effect :-)
Keep em coming.
That Preston biryani mixed with those Indian lagers sure did make Wednesday morning start a tad uncomfortable for me! Thankfully all was settled by the time we three amigos rode into Whalley town and stopped for lunch at that rather pleasant French bistro. Cycling on the Leeds Liverpool canal, past Keighley, brought back memories of trips to this part of the world in the mid 80's, to see a nurse I had formed a relationship with, whilst she lived in London. My abiding memory of those days? Apart from the young nurse, the smell of coal in the air, as I descended the steps of the bus to Keighley bus garage. A relief indeed to hit the flat lands along the canal, though my bottom took another hammering, this time from the uneven canal path! A challenging 3,675 feet of climbing on day 2 (according to OS Maps)!
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