London to York 2025 day 4 - The ICE MAN cometh...

Just to say all bets are still ON! I have not finished!  You cannot claim your winnings yet, whichever way you’ve bet, until the very very end which includes me finishing this final BLOG entry with my signature ‘Ciao for now’. Got that? OK! 

I’m on the final run in. Get yer binoculars out!  Sorry this one is a long read…. Enjoy… :-)

It’s just after 3am and I’m stuck in a warm damp bed with the upper sheet, the lower sheet, the duvet and both pillows wrapped tight around me as though gripped inside some mad moist marshmallow straight jacket.  I can’t move!  I’ve been stuck like this ever since I opened my eyes and looked at both clocks at 2:44 precisely.  Hmmm, perhaps a small residual post cataract operation problem where I cannot get both eyes to focus on the same clock at the same time when laid on my side without going cross eyed.  I’m gonna have to go back and see The Italian about that little problem cos boss-eyed I should not be even after a stupendously mad winter’s bike ride.

As near as dammit this was my route.   270+ or so mad winter miles with all the added crap nav driven reroutings and u-turns over the last 3.5 days.. 

 


Here’s my review of this weeks ride (please excuse my grandma and missspelwrinks).

1. Preparation and equipment

Well, I’d done all of my research and so it was simply just a matter of waiting for a weather window to open up.   The very last thing I wanted was to be cold and wet for any length of time especially into a head wind in winter.   Fun that is not.

For this ride I took my Koga World Tour bike.   A bit of a 5 bar gate thing with tractor tyres that can carry everything including the kitchen sink.  With wonderful foresight it had a set of built in bright luminous Sun dynamo LED lights, supplemented for this ride with a set of extra-extra bright strap on flashy LED things front and back.  I just knew that I would be riding at times on busy ‘A roads’ at night.

Koga? Well, she’s a Dutch bike with a liking to be tied up.  She does not wince if I go anywhere near her with a strap on.   She’s strong in a muscular female way and if you get her going just right she’s a joy to ride.  Fits me impressively, like a small condom on a large pump!

I have a bar bag that’s gonna carry all of my essentials.  That does not include my testicles cos for sure they're still not detachable and anyway, they regularly play hide and seek whenever I’m out on a cold day.   They do get into some wonderfully unusual places though.  I’m using 2 of my smaller panniers this time.   One for me.  One for the bike.   The latter carrying all of my waterproof and insulating gear, along with a small tool bag with a selection of wrenches and soft lotions in case I get my nuts stuck.  The other bag has my evening wear - no not that - you know, t-shirt, spare grundies and socks and trousers so that I’m not hovering around bars in manky cycling gear at the end of the day with a 2 meter wide area of dead air around me into which nobody, even if they had a really bad cold, would ever go.  Finally some electronics to charge my flashers, phone and battery bank overnight.   And finally, finally, Komoot on the phone.   It’s a replacement crap nav APP so that I can cut down on carrying a small electrical sub station in my packs cos of the amount of electronic gadgetry normally on the journey with me.

2. This country of ours

There is just something magical about riding a bike a long way.  One travels at a speed determined by many things; not only you and your bodily restrictions but by the weather, the people that you meet, the shape of the land etc..   You slow down.  Getting somewhere is no longer a 100 mph flash in the pan train journey nor being cocooned in a heated cab ride where all you see is the strip of black boring tarmac ahead as the green hedges whizz by at either side.  And what you come to realise is - that this country of ours is BIG!  I mean - if you think that a bike ride to your local Tesco superstore is a long way to go then let me tell you….  Your perception of the universe outside of your insulated world is sorely limited, but only by the lack of hard skin on your hairy aerosol (I think I’ve spelt that wrong - but no, wait, my dictionary definition says - it’s something under pressure but when released produces a fine spray propelled by a high pressure gas). Yep. That’s it.

So what did I see?  Sadly, the flat land of the Fens - which was most of it - are like a lame old man bent crooked by time, robbed of all of his ambitions and goals, living off of the good times when Britain ran the world; who's bank account has been drained and who’s monstrous aged housing estates are crumbling about his ears.  As per my blog updates, the east of the country resembles a poor man’s hovel when compared to the rich financial centre of London or to the wealthy fat retirement villages in Yorkshire.  It’s a place where trying to eat involves the best use of one’s pets and the chocolate and grey scrapings from the land all about.   Where every damn thing is covered in a green moss if it does not get out of this place really quickly.  So that’s the land, the trees, the hovels and barns, the roads and rails.  Even the slow moving women folk with their rounded shoulders, headscarfs, wide square hips and who share big smiles at every stranger because they’re desperate to get some new blood into their hard coded gene pool, have green upper lips.  Even the very, very occasional fat man and his hyper car penis extension of a thing is blathered like they’ve rogered a dirty aerosol backwards in this matt brown and grey backside of a place.  Look at it this way. As winter turns into spring things really can only get better.

However, don’t let me paint a purely negative picture of this part of the world.  It also contains a beauty not seen elsewhere.  There’s more elevation in the pimples on my flat backside than there is here.  But with that comes supremely distant vistas where trees melt ghost like in the distant mists and the sunsets are a glorious sight.  A land abso-bloody-utely loaded with swans.  A steely grey monochrome world that has me hankering to go back to the days when everything on TV was good and in black and white.   Then there are the native British forests to the south of Scunthorpe; a part of the world that has not been stripped bare in that Brazilian way but left pristine and glorious in all of its bushiness. A place that I will perhaps visit again some day.

Then there’s the glorious MUD!  I don’t know about you but you can find wonder and awe in all kinds of negative things.  The land is blathered in it.   Slip sliding on one’s merry way knowing that the average MPH is taking a beating and that for sure you’re gonna be in the dark at the end of a very long days ride.   Even in the moment of running aground after 2 miles jolly rogering up the wrong canal path with mud jammed in Koga’s undergarments. With bent stick in hand and in the pitch black I momentarily stop all my complaining and look up.  I’m in the absolute middle of bloody nowhere with a low mist all around.  I watch the moon as it rises and then follow my gaze up into the blackest of heavens above.  So many stars and high flying flashy things to be seen.  Not a sound to be heard, not a street light, not even the loom of the distant city of Lincoln.  In that moment of trouble, to be becalmed with a view of the universe in all of its beauty made the other tribulations in this life seem so far away.

There were also many moments in time as I cycled along.    Like on an as smooth a silk road with no other traffic and a cool breeze to my rear, glancing over my left shoulder at a glorious sunset, only to be disturbed by the occasional passing tree or telegraph pole.  Or see in the cold grey distance after crossing an eternity of flat freshly ploughed hedge free wilderness an ‘A road’ raised high above the surrounding land which could have been a SCUD carrying major supply route to the west of Bagdad.  Or a Bernard Matthews frozen turkey carrying route as others may call it.  Either of which will have a disastrous outcome on your outhouse should you be on the wrong end of it.  A SAS winter training ground this surely is.

Finally to learn not to fear ‘A roads’ as often there is no other option here.  To be gentle and kind with other road users cos for sure we all want to encourage good behaviour don’t we?

No.  Worryingly I am overtaken by an articulated truck whose rear right hand container door is swinging into oncoming traffic on every left hand bend.  Whose idiotic driver just carried on, ignoring the flashing lights of oncoming vehicles.  Whilst I may muse to myself how it probably had a clout similar to the head gardener at the garden centre, on reflection it’s idiots like that who will bring a ‘right hand bend left door’ end of days moment to a cyclist with a sickening thud.  I understand the risks associated with cycling but refuse to wrap myself up in cotton wool and not ride my bike. 

3. Food

You just cannot eat enough.  Every single day I had the equivalent of two breakfasts, elevenses, two lunches, afternoon tea, dinner number 1 (early), dinner number 2 (later) and then always found myself with something interesting in my mouth as I clambered into bed.  No, them’s flapjack crumbs I told the cleaner as I exited the room.  Nonetheless I still bonked - twice.  Nope that’s nothing to do with trying to break the hard coded gene pool problem and so help cure the monobrow look in these parts.  No.  Imagine having jelly filled legs with no push in them.  I just don’t understand it.  I’ve shovelled down the chute all that Audrey II can take.  Her furnace, which has a vorant appetite, quickly produces piles of clinker which Audrey is now packaging onto the Greek airport baggage carousel ready for ejection - at precisely 9am tomorrow.

You will have seen how in desperation I took to taking anything wrapped in foil on the ride with me including breakfast material that should have been put straight in the bin.  On Wednesday I left March with something stillborn from the hotel kitchen and on the ride towards Wisbech I stopped to try a bit of oral with it.  Aw God!  Emergency!   It did look so so unwell.  Whiteish grey and flaccid.  I made a screeching stop at a Patisserie come coffee house on the outskirts of Wisbech and screamed in through the emergency exit.

There she was.  A vision of delight.  Dressed in white with a coffee thermometer draped around her neck.  Surrounded by all manner of icing covered fruit rolls, cakes and croissants.  For sure she was at the front of the tit fairy’s queue when she was born.

Help, please help me I implored as I gently lay the swaddled breakfast wrap on her surgically clean counter.  She bent over it, ever so carefully peeled back the thermal wrapper to expose the limp white flesh that cocooned the important stuff inside.  Betwixt thumb and forefinger she rolled back the bread like sheath to expose a rather grey looking sausage.  Oh please oh please help it, PLEASE I exclaimed. 

She reached into her pocket and took out a small pair of electrodes connected to a 9v battery. She carefully placed one electrode on the tip of my sausage and the other near its base.  It gave a gentle twitch.

Is it… is it DEAD? I whisper.

After what seemed an eternity she says,

I’m sorry Sir, your sausage sandwich is still alive. I’m afraid I’m gonna have to put it in the bin.

We both slowly raise out heads and our eyes meet across the remains of the day which by now, having thawed out, was snuffling around the countertop looking for the gravy granules.  We look lovingly into each other’s eyes, our souls only moments apart. 

She’s thinking - I wonder If I can sell this bloody idiot some fondant fancies…
I’m thinking - I wonder if she’ll let me lick her buns…

Well, that little dream came to a red cheeked end. Ow! Dammit! Riding in the cold has had a damaging effect on my internal monologue.

The problem of course with eating so much is that it has to eventually go somewhere.  Normally at about 08:59 am with a resultant 1 minute dash.  No straining is needed in this respect and if I fail to get my breakfast timings just right I’m gonna put an awful lot of folk off of their porridge.  Now why is it in this part of the world their toilet paper’s coefficient of friction is the wrong way around?  Surely it’s best if the paper sticks to your fingers and slides off your arse innit???  Aw God.  I look like a kid whose grubby little hands have found their way into a jar of Nutella.

4. The effect of cycling long distances

My cycling miles since last summer have not been great.  Up to 40 miles at times hereabouts.  So I’m particularly happy that doing circa 45 miles on day 1, 60 miles day 2, 90 miles day 3 and 75 miles day 4 have not really been a problem.  I recall the early days where a 35 mile ride in Cornwall in 2017 resulted in a sizzling effect as I lowered my legs into an ice cold bath.  My legs nowadays are good.  Even to the extent that I no longer write about ‘our lass’ and ‘ma boy’ (my knees) because they have somewhat matured and now have physiques like Arnold Schwarzenegger.

On such long tour days the time in the saddle can be well in excess of 7 hours.  I think I’ve now got hard skin in places where the sun never shines as I no longer wear padded shorts.  Just a little something with a bit of lycra in the mix between me and my trousers to keep me slip sliding along.  Most days ma boys go to another place which, if I hit a pothole, will include my armpits.

Boredom?  Nope, none of it. I just soak up all that I survey and think clearly about all the important things in this life.  I do find it emotional.  As I have written before I can at the drop of a hat break out and laugh like a drain at a momentary thought.  But similarly become weepy if a sad one flits in that space between the ears.  For sure you know that you are alive!

But I did a stupid thing this time.  On day 2 I thought that perhaps my saddle could be raised a few millimetres or so.  Which I did but within 5 miles put it back down because, ooh did I find a sore bit somewhere.  I am left with a mild toothache pain somewhere in my left leg.  Not the knee, nor the hip..  Power remains good but I’m now a little sore.  I think that the combination of the hot bath wrestling the night before and the saddle change has pinched a sciatic nerve somehow.  An old war wound from the many days and nights at work driving a desk.

But I am prepared.  I always carry a little bit of Ibuprofen…  And all is now good.  BUT.  My aim as you know from this blog is to avoid taking tablets wherever possible.  My fights with the drug pusher are becoming legendary and yes I’m sure that the day will come where I will have no choice.  Until then I will do the other things to keep me healthy and not take the tablets like candy.  For sure CYCLING is a really good way to stay physically and mentally healthy :-).  The link below expresses my feelings today...

Sometimes this is just how life feels!

5. The Weather

It’s winter.  Yes I can solidly tell you its winter.  It’s been bloody cold.  But.  I’ve dressed for it.  And it’s quite straightforward really.  I’ve left my crampons at home but for sure walking trainers are just not good enough.   I have feet like blocks of ice. Working up I’m wearing lycra underwear to keep things slippy and a pair of walking trousers to keep the freshness off my York hams.  Then a quite thin wicking liner which is glued to my carcass over which I’m wearing a thin merino wool jumper and a cycling jacket.  I have a thin stretchy tube of a thing pulled down over my ears and flicked back over my bald pate with a cycling helmet atop it all.  That’s it.  It’s a beautifully dry airmass yet I ride wet.  Fat people know this.  The energy produced even in this weather makes me sweat and whilst its not the gallon and a half of moisture that’s ejected through my pores on warm summer days it’s enough to keep me mildly moist all over all day.  But I am not cold.

There’s not been a day without ice somewhere in the mix.  The high pressure to the south east of the UK has fed a cold but importantly dry body of air across the UK giving me a rain free tail wind - except for some reason in the Fens south of Boston where the lack of hedgerows and other shrubbery means that whatever is happening with the jet stream above reaches all the way to the ground.  As London Alan will remember, and I am so sorry for the misery I caused cos of my crap route planning, a head wind in this part of the world is bloody hard going.  Sorry London Alan.

One thing to know is that cold air sinks.  And that if the Sun does not shine on it the ground will remain frozen even on the milder days.  The following photo shows that even leafless trees give sufficient shade to keep things icy.



When riding in the Fens along the base of the dykes that hold the seas and rivers back, well these act as cold air traps.  Whilst your body is perhaps in the slightly milder stuff yer feet re in the bloody deep freeze. 🥶

Yesterday, a sunny day, started off frosty and very white all over.  As I rode I blew great volumes of steamy breath out as though I’m one of them smoke dragons with multiple vapes in my mouth.  All day you’re riding whilst holding on to your testicles as you’re often in places where gritters and the low low Sun never goes.  I have genes in my body that make it absolutely impossible for me to turn a bar end when on the ice as you’d feel the shock waves in York if I were ever to go down.  Nonetheless, I’m on the home leg.

Just south of Goole I had my second bonking session.  I stopped and demolished half a pack of chocolate coated macaroons and took a good swig from an energy drink.  Within minutes I’m flying along.  I join Sustrans route 65, my favoured old railway line route from Riccall to York, and I’m shifting.  The Sun has gone.  I spy in the far far distance what looks like a faint flash of a red light.  That it.  It’s at the extremity of what I can see.  I’ve done 70 miles and where the hell my body finds the energy I don’t know but I’m now in chase mode.  I’m raging along the dark path all lights asunder and legs akimbo chasing that distant LED light.  The sky to my left is a low hard burnt orange and fiery red as though the Californian fires have been prismatically refracted around the globe.

The ice is back with a vengance - patches of the path are a solid white again with frost.  My tyres cut through with a high speed sound akin to a steel blade cutting through a million glass icicles.  There’s a gentle curve on the track and the LED light has again gone.  Press on, press on!  It’s back!  A little brighter perhaps?  I’m really shifting in a way only a mad ice encrusted fat man might.  I feel nothing other than the blocks of ice that used to be my feet.  Again the red light disappears.  But then it is back.   Brighter still!  There is no stopping me!  I will have it before the end of the 6 mile run!  Gaaaahhhh!  What a beautifully cold yet ravagingly awesome end to the tour!

Of course I catch him.  Another cyclist who said he thought he was being chased by some alien craft going by all 3 LED derived sources of bright flashy things that slowly caught up with him as though he’s in that film Close Encounters of the Third Kind.  I’ve only got 2 at the front??  Oops!  My flies had come undone during my road rage ride and there’s Balloon Dog with his head out of the window as stiff as an icicle sporting the biggest and brightest red nose ever. 

6. Epilogue

I’m home just after 5.  Even though I’ve eaten a million ultra bad bread encapsulated calories my blood glucose measurement is just over 7.  A great result!  For sure I’ll be away to the butcher early tomorrow to pick up a proper meat pie :-) 

This was my first winter tour ever. A spectacularly cold dash through Tesco’s fresh food freezer department.  Because of the expected massive reduction in sweat, for the first time ever on a cycle ride I’ve worn the same kit for the whole journey to keep the weight in my panniers down.  Let me check it perhaps?

I take off my tops and give each a good sniff.  Hey!  Not bad.  Just moist and cold but for sure the anti-bacterial action of the lightweight liner and marino wool jumper combo has been a roaring success!

My socks next. Yeah, well, they’re kinda OK too.  Been sat in the deep freeze for the last 4 days and no not an inkling of rotten Bombay duck about them at all.  Great!

And finally, I lift my mildly moist and perhaps still a little warm black lycra short liners off the floor.  Yep they do look quite OK really.  I peel open the legs and push my nose deep into the damp crotch and take a big long lingering sniff.... 

UURRKKK! 

ULP! ULP! … 

I …ULP!…

can’t…ULP!!… 

…breathe…. ULP!!! ULP! ……
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e
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e
y
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o
w
w
w
W
A

A

A

H.

H..

H.....

[!!!WHUMPHHhhh!!!!….]