C2C - Go West Young Man!

Don't ever say you learn nowt from reading this blog.  

"Go West young man, go West", was allegedly an expression first published in the USA by John Babsone Lane Soule in 1851.  It appealed to Horace Greeley, an American journalist who reported extensively on the US Civil War and who rephrased it in a newspaper editorial in 1865 to "Go West young man and grow up with the country".  The phrase captured the imaginations of people returning from the Civil War, many of whom moved west following in the footsteps of that other famous American - John Wayne - to take up a homestead and shoot the locals.  Fact innit?

So like the village people go west we did.  There's not really any other direction one can take if you plan to ride your mule of a bike from Blackpool to Scarbados and you’re setting off from York.

We arrive into Blackpool on the COVID cross country stagecoach loaded with folk on their way to a rough mix of Paris and Las Vegas which had been chucked into a concrete mixer and poured out onto the Irish sea front.  Blackpool.  Built on the remains of an old Victorian sewerage works methinks going by the smell.  Would you really go there for a holiday?  For sure you would if you could only afford to gamble with tuppences in any one of the penny arcades that litter the sea front; and only if all you needed was access to cheap alcohol to give you the inclination to waddle between the chip shops, to have sex with the carnies and sleep in a gutter.  Yes?  Then this is your town.  Or Newcastle. 

Of course we are last off the train and immediately get lost within sight of the station.  'Ok boys, I have my crap nav with me'.  Just then the sky turned stormy with a distant rumble of thunder and a chill wind. Ooo-err! Ominous!  For sure we're going to get to our destinations each day.  However I will NOT be responsible for the routing.  

The camera was recording our arrival.  A young lad ran alongside my horse shouting 'hey mister, why have you got a candle stuck to your head?'.  'Feck off you little brat', I mumbled.  'Go play with the trams..' At least I now know that the camera is working..

The trot along the sea front was all pleasant like.  Three muchachos riding together for the one and only time of the whole journey, weaving between the drunk locals on our way initially in the wrong direction along the coast towards Fleetwood to 'have a look'.  Most of the coastline here is built up with concrete.  A lot of it.  Nonetheless, the sun comes out and it's a pleasant ride down the coast with a gentle on shore breeze helping us along.  I peek over the land side of the sea wall onto the rooftops of the houses below.  Only now does it become apparent that without this 10 mile stretch of sea wall there'd be a biblical mess every high tide with a lot of properties underwater.  

I imagine how it is for the homesteaders below.  I suspect not nice as opening ones bedroom curtains only ever shows the empire state building in front of you flat on its side.  Forget having a sea-view in this part of the world.  I saunter down the wall onto the beach and carefully approach the Irish sea.  I bend down and wash my right hand through the surf just as it tries to grab me from behind.  Surprisingly my nice new pair of Coast to Coast legs [bought off eBay for £3.50 and fitted last week] somehow manage to quickly push me in reverse up the beach as the sea growls its displeasure at failing to catch me out.  

Here's London Alan and South Side Mark both posing for the camera with a huge erection.  I think they're both a little bit excited about the journey ahead.

It's a long ride down the front as one might find with any old lady.  Shabby in places.  Done up like an old tarts boudoir in an attempt by the locals to attract the human cattle into any one of their dens.  The place is covered with hoardings being built for the Blackpool illuminations night time extravaganza to come.  I've been and say don't bother going to it.  It's like wandering through the old BHS lighting department.  You always come away feeling somewhat underwhelmed...

There's spandex everywhere!  South Side Mark initially felt at home then became a bit worried looking at all the fat girls dressed in skin tight leggings trussed up to their boobs [URP! sorry!] .  It's so like the postcards of old cept the big girls are now wearing the 21st century version of tight fitting 1950's bathing suits pouring out at the ends like a hard squeezed tube of toothpaste with a Mojito in each hand.  An old whaler is parked out at sea waiting for the accidental drift with the tide of the really big girls; specially those who have got out of their depth and have not sunk.  We skirt the lot of 'em keeping all at arms length which 'aint easy when close to the Tower.  For some reason everyone congregates there.  For sure the coastline is quieter and less likely to explode further up towards Fleetwood.

We press on following the dulcet tones of a rather bored crap nav which took us past the Big One (fnar) where London Alan looked up in admiration of such a huge erection; then heard the girls shriek as they rode down it which only served to remind him of the trouble he was gonna have with his fanny when he got home.  We wandered along the sea front then onto the roads working our way around Lytham St Annes; a rather nice retirement home for old golfers that is slowly being consumed by the sand dunes.  

I'm already battling with the crap nav which is now attempting to squirrel us down every back street that it can find and the guy's are getting annoyed with all of the emergency stops.  Whilst I know that we are generally going in the right direction cos the sun is sometimes on my back I'm already bothered about today's routing and this is the easy day.  I know, nay I can feel the eyes of my fellow muchachos burning into my back wondering how the feck we ended up on the busiest fecking B road anywhere in the UK.  Sorry guy's.  It's the crap nav.  Sometimes you just have to go with it.  

We arrive at the guest house in Preston. I saunter up to the desk wielding my bike pump and say in my bestest Mexican bandito accent ‘geeve mee hall of yor monee.. an yor cheeldren!’ To which the landlady said, 'Yes dear, it’s been a lovely day hasn’t it.  Mr Tyssen isn't it?  Here are your room keys.  Breakfast is between 7 and 9...’  

Damnit the first robbery didn’t go to plan.  She didn't take me seriously!  I think it was my crapola accent. 

Tomorrow we ride into the badlands!

Adios for now Amigos!