9 minute read
Finding new friends in the darkest places
Fuelled mainly by peanut butter and jam sandwiches, Manchester-based Ian Kershaw a holiday to Berwick-onlooped through the three mainland countries of Britain in a day – but not without the vital help of strangers whose kindness restored his faith in human nature. Here’s his uplifting story… LIKE SO MANY Finding new frıendsın the WORDS & PICTURES IAN KERSHAW others, the pandemic wiped out my cycling ambitions. I’d planned, with a friend, to take on the Raid Across Tweed, and I mulled over the idea of cycling home from Northumberland. Then it occurred to me – England, Scotland and Wales in a day! Surely I could do it, couldn’t I? I plotted a GPS route which involved starting in darkest nightthe Pyrenees, Northumberland, England, but obviously travelling north into Scotland, then had to cancel. In the westwards along the Borders, dropping grand scheme of back into England, southwards down to things, this was no issue. Wales, and then home. The route was out of town. It was a perfect summer’s day.
In 2019 I’d ridden some official 200km going to be around 520kms. After about ten miles. I crossed the Tweed Audaxes, and also the coast-to-coast from On Saturday 1 August, the last again, near Ladykirk, and was in Scotland. Workington to Tynemouth and back in less morning in our Airbnb, my bike was It felt odd going northwards to go home, than 24 hours. I also did a group ride from packed ready to go. I woke at around 7am, but was all part of the plan. London to Manchester, and a solo sub showered and ate a bowl of porridge The route was great, with quiet roads, 24-hour jaunt from London to Paris via followed by a lasagne – not my normal and passing through the majestic towns of Dover and Calais – all DIY rides. breakfast fare, by the way. I drank lots of Kelso and Hawick before some stunning
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During summer 2020, as things began fluid, said goodbye to my partner and Borders countryside. Within my saddle bag opening up, I was looking for a safe and young boy, and was on my way before were nine home-made peanut butter and realistic challenge. The family had booked 8am. I crossed the River Tweed and was jam sandwiches, and I made a conscious
❝I crossed the Tweed again, near Ladykirk, and was in Scotland. It felt odd going northwards to go home, but was all part of the plan ❞
❝The route was great, with quiet roads, and passing through the majestic towns of Kelso and Hawick before some stunning Borders countryside ❞
effort to stop every 50 miles or so to refuel. The first few hours passed quickly. I was still excited, the scenery was fantastic, and I felt great, free as a bird, a real point-topoint adventure. My average speed was good, and everything was going to plan.
Then my first setback. I momentarily lost concentration on a minor road. I’d been day-dreaming, but was awoken as I left the road on to an undulating grass verge, which quickly snapped me out of my trance. I was telling myself “don’t panic, don’t fall off, just get back on the tarmac”. The next thing, a loud explosion, and I hit the deck. Confused, and with a blooded knee and elbow, my first concern was the bike. The rear derailleur had slid the wrong way. I thought I’d snapped the gear hanger, and although had an emergency one, believed my adventure to be prematurely ended. But the bike looked ok, apart from a rear flat. I didn’t have to make the dreaded call of shame to the family to pick me up.
My heart was still racing and my grazes, while bloody, were ok. Taking my time I removed the rear wheel, changed the tube and used a CO2 canister to get pressure back – another explosion and an immediate flat. I hadn’t checked the tyre for detritus as it was evident what had caused the initial flat – the lip of the tarmac protruding at right angles over the grass verge. But I hadn’t realised it had cut the tyre wall. Inflating the new tube made it bulge through the slice like a hernia.
Arghh! That made sense. Good job I
Tubeless in Beetham… with no more tubes left, much to the delight of a passing motorist
had some emergency tyre boots – a life saver. Again I took my time, and carefully inspected the tyre and used the boot. I looked at the front tyre which also had a slit with the tube sticking out. While this inner was fine, I deflated it, booted the tyre, re-inflated and re-fixed the front wheel. After about an hour I was back on the road, a little shaken but more alert. I surely had enough tubes.
I didn’t think about looking for a bike shop. I’d brought four spares and was down to three – that was enough. After another 50 miles I was thinking differently. I had a slow puncture to the rear. You just know. You get that feeling – the back end feels different. You hope it will go away, and ignore it. Sometimes it’s a false alarm, a phantom, however not this time.
With the rear out again I checked the tyre, and the boot was good. I couldn’t find anything in the tyre. Wheeling into England I was now down to two spares. I pondered detouring to find a bike shop but dismissed the idea. Surely I’ll pass one on route? How many times do I usually puncture? Then I got that feeling again. It was a slow. There was nothing in the tyre. I was down to one spare.
While I didn’t find a bike shop, my mindset improved as I seemed again to be making good time. I still had half a full bidon when hitting the Lakes. I decided to stop for something more substantial at Bampton. Here I found a Post Office which also sold limited food, ordered a latte, some bread and soup, a flapjack and a coke, sitting and eating outside.
My two water bottles were also re-filled, and I used their loo. This was the
Lively… Preston after midnight – wasn’t expecting pave at this time of night
Across the border… back into England for the third time in less than 24 hours
only stop I had to make where I had to pay for refreshments on the whole journey. The peanut butter and jam sandwiches worked for me – like rocket fuel. There was some spectacular riding and close to Shap a bird of prey was hovering within 50 metres of me.
Making good time through Kendall along the A6, close to Beetham I got that feeling again. The rear tyre was going down. I pulled over, and emptied my pack. I was down to my last tube. Again checking and taking my time, tube in, using my pump – the valve snapped. That was it, the end, or so I thought. Despite all the spares I’d brought I didn’t think to bring a puncture kit. You fool, Ian.
With my kit strewn over the verge I packed up and started walking south along the A6. A car went past tooting its horn, with a family inside and waving at my dejection. Why do they do this? A passer-by, giving me a wide Covid berth, thought there was a bike shop in a nearby village – but it would be Sunday tomorrow, so closed.
I carried on walking and came to a minor cross road, and followed the sign to Silverdale, a village I’d stayed in a few years ago. Maybe I could find some accommodation? Then I saw a woman, and I said hello from a distance and asked if she knew of any nearby accommodation. She said no, but her husband, who was further down the lane watching some wildlife, might know. I approached, and we talked.
He asked where I’d come from and where was I going. His ears pricked up. His son was into cycling. If I waited a few minutes he may be able to help. So this is where my fortune changed. I followed Joe, his mum and dad back to their gran’s caravan at a cautious distance for obvious reasons. Joe, a keen young cyclist, had a repair kit and a spare tube. We swapped stories while we repaired one inner. He gave me another and some CO2 cartridges. His mum and gran made me some food, a brew and gave me some biscuits.
With the tube fixed I was in my way. It was dark now, and I’d only gone five minutes when I could hear a constant rubbing. We’d dislodged the boot, and the inner was doing its hernia impression again. I decided against refitting the tyre in the darkness, and walked back to Joe’s. Retracing my steps through the caravan site in the dark I found them again. They’d waited outside – just in case. Under torch light the wheel was stripped, the boot re-fixed, tyre re-pressured and I was good to go. This time it was a final goodbye.
That repaired tube lasted me the rest of the journey. I’ve kept in touch with Joe, given him some lights, and sent him some money for his troubles. His family’s kindness was not only fantastic for normal times, but in the middle of a global pandemic, phenomenal. I was speechless. It’s kindness like this which help keep my beliefs on track. I wouldn’t have finished this ride without them.
I thought I had every scenario covered with spare kit. I’d planned to be selfsufficient, not wanting to be a burden. I’ll take a puncture kit on future solo adventures. The rest of the trip was a blur. The A6 was the best I’ve travelled as there was so little traffic. Preston was interesting at midnight as there were a few revellers out, in differing states. On the road to Chorley I was stopped by a drunk asking for directions at 1am. He didn’t understand I was just passing through. There was light rain near Wigan, but I had a lightweight jacket which also helped to keep the mild chill off. The weather, all told, had been perfect.
I was in Wales before 6am, and then sat in the square at Holt having another peanut butter and jam breakfast. I decided on a different route back to Manchester – through Malpass, playing it by ear. I was on well-trodden ground now. I’d done it. I was home by 11am.
The total solo trip was 319.2 miles, with a ride time of 20 hours 51 minutes, an average speed of 15.3 mph, and elevation of just over 12,000 feet. A huge thank you to Joe and your family, I couldn’t have done it without you all.
