demonboylard
New Member
Following last week's initial ride around the lanes of Cumbria, Saturday saw our first 'organised' ride. The intention was to ride on the towpath alongside the Lancaster canal, from Preston to Bilsborrow, stop for a swift drink, ride back the same way.......
Note the words 'The intention' in the previous paragraph.
The day dawns to find our intrepid heroes discussing whether to ride out on the Saturday or on the Sunday as had been previously agreed. One of the party argued that 'it looked quite sunny' and 'if we do it today we can just relax tomorrow'. Consulting UK.weather.com informed them that there was only a 10% chance of rain.
You can see this coming, can't you?
Helmets donned, water bottles filled and loins girded where appropriate, the heroes departed. The cycle path begins, as expected, with a flight of stairs, and another, and another, and a weird 'A-shaped' gate which you have to lift bikes over, but then opens out to run in tarmac-topped tranquility alongside the canal, the only sound disturbing the silence the occasional cry of 'that house looks nice, look at their garden' and 'Ducks!'
However, soon the tarmac was no more and our heroes found themselves running on thick grass over bumpy ground and cursing the fact with the ancient Saxon curse of "My arse!" Then there was a moment, that special moment when you have definitely felt the first spot of rain, and the second, but are kidding yourself that you may have imagined it. No, they hadn't. 5 minutes later, soaked to the skin, unable to see very well through raindrop spattered glasses, shelter was sought under a bridge. Sadly the rain showed no signs of letting up, so the ride continued as did the pounding of the rear quarters.
Luckily support was at hand from several well-wishers, saying 'hello', 'well done for coming out in this' and 'whos idea was it to come out today then?' with the brightest comments being from the narrow-boat owner who told me I was at least 3 miles short of where I thought I was.
Sheltering under what they had been assured was the last bridge before the pub, just after they had ploughed through about 3 metres of mud, our heroine made our hero's day by informing him he would soon have a flat tyre. "How do you know?", "You've got a bloody great thorn sticking out of it!". "Arse".
To draw a veil over our heroes' plight, by the time they got to the pub they were soaked to the knickers and filthy and were too ashamed to actually go in and have a pint. They decided to ride home on the A6, stopping only to discover that the pump purchased from Aldi the day before for 3/6d didn't actually fit the bloody tyre valve, but the one at the garage did.
So, 1 ride, 20 miles, 2 sore arses, 1 puncture and 4 puncture-proof tyres on order. Highlights, getting home, finally drying off, the slightly manic laughter as we walked home from the LBS. Lowlights, weather, surface, punctures, sarcasm, dead swan, sore knees, aching thighs....
It gets better, right?
DBL.
Note the words 'The intention' in the previous paragraph.
The day dawns to find our intrepid heroes discussing whether to ride out on the Saturday or on the Sunday as had been previously agreed. One of the party argued that 'it looked quite sunny' and 'if we do it today we can just relax tomorrow'. Consulting UK.weather.com informed them that there was only a 10% chance of rain.
You can see this coming, can't you?
Helmets donned, water bottles filled and loins girded where appropriate, the heroes departed. The cycle path begins, as expected, with a flight of stairs, and another, and another, and a weird 'A-shaped' gate which you have to lift bikes over, but then opens out to run in tarmac-topped tranquility alongside the canal, the only sound disturbing the silence the occasional cry of 'that house looks nice, look at their garden' and 'Ducks!'
However, soon the tarmac was no more and our heroes found themselves running on thick grass over bumpy ground and cursing the fact with the ancient Saxon curse of "My arse!" Then there was a moment, that special moment when you have definitely felt the first spot of rain, and the second, but are kidding yourself that you may have imagined it. No, they hadn't. 5 minutes later, soaked to the skin, unable to see very well through raindrop spattered glasses, shelter was sought under a bridge. Sadly the rain showed no signs of letting up, so the ride continued as did the pounding of the rear quarters.
Luckily support was at hand from several well-wishers, saying 'hello', 'well done for coming out in this' and 'whos idea was it to come out today then?' with the brightest comments being from the narrow-boat owner who told me I was at least 3 miles short of where I thought I was.
Sheltering under what they had been assured was the last bridge before the pub, just after they had ploughed through about 3 metres of mud, our heroine made our hero's day by informing him he would soon have a flat tyre. "How do you know?", "You've got a bloody great thorn sticking out of it!". "Arse".
To draw a veil over our heroes' plight, by the time they got to the pub they were soaked to the knickers and filthy and were too ashamed to actually go in and have a pint. They decided to ride home on the A6, stopping only to discover that the pump purchased from Aldi the day before for 3/6d didn't actually fit the bloody tyre valve, but the one at the garage did.
So, 1 ride, 20 miles, 2 sore arses, 1 puncture and 4 puncture-proof tyres on order. Highlights, getting home, finally drying off, the slightly manic laughter as we walked home from the LBS. Lowlights, weather, surface, punctures, sarcasm, dead swan, sore knees, aching thighs....
It gets better, right?
DBL.
