I do, I do, I do, I do, I do!

Motivation.  I need none.  Not for this trip nor for any other.  Irrespective of anything that might conspire to stop me in my tracks, if I set out to do something then I will succeed.  Like whilst riding the wild wind yesterday.    

Thank you storm Alex.  A murderous affair that bashed Florida a few days earlier before dumping lashings of rain on the UK the day we rode from Milngavie (pronounced Milngavie in this neck of the woods) [1] to Moffat.  Which was another murderous affair riding some 70 miles across the borders, a piece of murderous land that the English, and the Romans by the way, considered too murderous to cross.  

And that ride across Shap.   Deary me.  That wind on the back side of the fell.  No not talking about you here South Side.  How it accelerated on that rock face!  Never ever have I ridden a bike and felt the power of it like that before.  Alnost lifted me and bike into the air!  Big wander into the middle of the road.  Thank God no car behind me.  Impossible to prevent.  Steep downhill pressing hard into the pedals and I'm blown to an absolute standstill.  I really really thought I was gonna be stuck at the top for the night.  

Now I know why Ken, who I visited in Ruckcroft, a small sheep settlement atop several fecking hard gnarly hill climbs in the Pennines, asked me if I was carrying an emergency bivvy bag when I told him where I was going later that day.  Fer fecks sake Ken.  Will you move to a house at the bottom of the fecking hill please.  I'd lost all feeling in my testicles by the time I'd ground my way up to your place!  What a great practice ride [NOT] before the main event to the top of Shap!  A day to be remembered cos I was the ONLY idiot riding across it that day on a push bike. 

If Churchill were alive today and had the time to watch my poo tube video I could imagine him uttering the immortal words, 'Nevah in the field of human cycling was so much owed by so many to so few' which I think is grammatically ok and works cos im the size of more than one aren't I?

I should have learnt from history but nah, I think I was asleep at the back of the class when the Hills and Borders of Scotland topic surfaced.  Probably why my resultant History O level result was so poor it was 'ungraded'.  So few points for such a work of fiction where I wrote that a Spinning Jenny was based on a seedling that fell out of an oak tree which is so wrong even on a botanical level.  I fell well below idiot on the Levine and Marks IQ scale from 1928 on that day.  Today too.  Well every day.  There you go.  That's all the proof you'll ever need.  That I am an idiot.

Determination.  My body is rigid with it.  The ride from Kendal to Preston was not as easy nor as flat as I thought.   Still with a fecking hard headwind.  I am absolutely amazed just how my legs get on with it.  Ma Boy and Our Lass are generally good.  Not a peep out of them 'cept for the occasional feeling that they're sanding the skirting boards in their bedrooms I would hope in preparation for painting in some more knee cartilage.  My legs rotate slowly.  They hate to be spun but are quite happy to push like a diesel truck on an uphill grade.  Hairy Jane often used to make rocket sounds when he rode away from me.  I just growl to myself that diesely low note as I grind along.  

But my legs.  Wow!  Every day.  Set the gear needed to keep the legs rotating at 50 rpm with pressure on the pedals and away I go.  When the pressure builds snick the next gear down.  If my legs start to spin, which for some reason I hate, then snick the next gear up.  For hour after hour, day after day.  They just keep on turning!

My legs are changing again.  I can feel it, Dave.  I now walk with what feels like a humongous gnarly set of appendages.  And I'm not talking about ma boys here.  Hamstrings feel fulsome and taught.  Quads flap as I walk.  What a fooking horrendous sight I must be now.  Like the bastard child of Arnie Schwarts and legger and a Gorilla!

But at the end of the day.  Hmmm.  Today I arrived in Preston at the Clairmont hotel.  There's been a booking / room mixup but with a cheery 'All sorted Mr Tyssen, were putting you in room 6 on the top floor!' ringing in my ears I catch my knees looking up at the stairs.  Not a fecking chance mate I hear them mutter.  With pannier and water bottle in hand I set off on what looks like a slow motion quick step with an invisible partner.  Up one down two up two down two up two down three.  Cha cha cha!  It took me half an hour to get to the second floor!  Fer fecks sake. 

Inspiration.  I am given it by the bucket load.  So many people I know today, many of whom I met whilst doing the voluntary delivery stuff during the covid years who are stuck at home with old age, broken bones or some other illness that has stopped them hard in their tracks for ever attempting such a ride.  People who would give their back teeth or some other broken appendage to experience the same deal.  How they all encourage me on.  To just do it.  Every single one of them.  For they know what lies around the corner, waiting in the dark alleys of my future years, that will eventually take a big bite out of my life and bring such mad ideas to an end.  Thank you all for reminding me what life is all about.

But to wind up today's entry.  I'm quacking.  And I dont mean like Donald Duck.  Right now I'm suffering a different kind of wind.  It's time to stop.  I've been awake writing into this blog since 6am and yes my body clock is right on time.  Today I've taken my inspiration from Churchill, and ABBA, and so its time to take flight, open my bomb bay doors and give Esbendia a proper pumelling of cluster and incendiary munitions..  

And I have another fecking ear worm.  Chas and Dave have finally left and the empty space between my ears is now filled with this which I'm currently humming to myself whilst flying low over Porcelania.

I LOVE the wind.  I do I do I do I do I DO!!!

I blame last nights curry.. 

Ciao for now. 

[1] Now I heard an interesting conversation about Milgavie where it was said that the REALLY posh people of the area really do pronounce it phonetically as it is written - so Milngavie, not Milngaye.  Here I am trying to teach David the Gentle Giant how to correctly pronounce it :-)

And... I cannot show the video cos the BBC, who I pay an exorbitant annual fee for the pleasure of watching tons of crap, have blocked the Morcambe and Wise Morny Stannit video clip on copyright grounds.  The fecking bar stewards.  My next rant is gonna be about them!  Grrrr!!!