The Bike, the Boy, and the Backpack
“The one thing you shouldn’t do is under-prepare”. Wise words of wisdom offered to me prior to embarking on my 241-mile charity cycle from Leeds to Dorking. Oh, how I wish I had listened.
It’s not so much that I didn’t prepare at all, but more so that the practice I had squeezed in was mediocre at best. “I’ll get some cycling in tomorrow” quickly dissolved into “definitely next week” and before long my adventure was waiting for me just around the corner with a baseball bat, ready to strike me down.
Now every journey starts somewhere, and this one starts with ActionAid. ActionAid is a charity that works alongside women and girls globally, supporting projects to make the world a safer more equal place, for everyone. Not only does this charity bring about real-world change in the immediate instance, but ActionAid is also committed to laying the foundations to ensure long-term benefits, allowing women and girls to create the future they want, however they see fit. What an outstanding organisation to raise money for and what better motivation could I possibly need to push me through the 241 gruelling miles that lay ahead?
ActionAid is a charity that works alongside women and girls globally, supporting projects to make the world a safer more equal place, for everyone.
So, there I stood, push-bike at the ready, helmet on head and backpack stuffed to the brim with energy bars and spare socks, thinking “what could (possibly) go wrong?”
The first 10 miles came and passed like the opening credits of a movie; I hardly even noticed them. I wasn’t interested in the cast or the production crew, I simply wanted to sink my teeth into the plot and with the wind sweeping through my hair (or at least it would have been if I wasn’t wearing a helmet), I was overcome with a surging sensation of youthful optimism about the task at hand. However, this was short-lived.
A cooling drizzle soon become a downpour and then suddenly I was downright drenched. Rain had arrived, and she was showing no sign of heading off for an early night. As fast as I could, I clambered into my waterproofs (thanks Dad) and carried on cycling until I arrived in a small town called Wombwell for lunch. Melancholy greys engulfed the skies above like an array of locusts, hell-bent on turning my mood sour. Rain had usurped Mr. Sun from his throne where he had so graciously sat, and now Rain was looking all-too comfortable.
Nonetheless, the road, like an impatient father, waits for no boy, so on I pushed.
Surging through the northern countryside, the sun began to set, and the rain had eased off. The world had come to terms with its new chalky dictator and as such the grey skies above had taken on a reddish hue, warming my watery exterior. The road sign screamed out Mansfield and I listened, pulling into The Black Bull public house for some rest and rehydration, where chance would have me conversing with the most brilliant, self-confessed Queen that I have ever met- Gordon. As my drink disappeared, the stories pouring from Gordon’s mouth flowed with a vigorous current, pulling me along, taking me on a journey I was unaware I needed. Tall tales of times spent owning the very establishment I was drinking in littered the evening air, spilling out through Gordon’s missing teeth as though they simply could not be contained. In an animated Disney-esque fashion, Gordon explained that some time ago, due to a lack of an entertainment licence, The Black Bull hosted a “private party”, to facilitate the toplessness of all the bar staff. A sight which I am positively certain brought a sense of euphoric ecstasy to the townsfolk of Mansfield. I finished my drink and Gordon finished his stories. Come nightfall, I was pitching up my tent in a field somewhere between Sheffield and Nottingham. Yes, I was shattered and yes, I was more rainwater than boy at this point, but honestly, I wouldn’t have wanted to be doing anything else.
After waking and bartering with some higher power, I managed to ensure clear skies for the day ahead. However, as a caveat to this deal, I was also given a terrible night’s sleep and the stiffest legs known to mankind. Two recurring events that I would soon come to loathe. Nonetheless, on I pushed. By midday, I was clambering about in Nottingham and before I knew it, Leicester was on the horizon.
As the hazy sky above shifted through the colour spectrum to a deep crimson, I started looking for someplace to settle down for the evening. Out of battery and out of energy I knocked on a house door, hoping for a friendly face that wouldn’t be too opposed to charging my phone while I sat down and prepared for another terrible night’s sleep (although unknown to me at the time).
Luck was on my side that evening when Cath opened the door, happy to charge my phone. We started up a conversation talking about my adventure and then soon discovered that we had been to the same exhibition at the Tate that summer prior. Cath offered for me to come inside, and I graciously declined, far too concerned about the way I smelt considering I had not showered in a few days.
Cath’s husband soon pulled into the drive with their daughter and a takeaway, fish and chips. Now I wouldn’t say that I was jealous of their lovely meal, but the idea of a steaming hot, beer-battered cod fillet coupled with crispy chips, slathered in excessive quantities of vinegar and just the right amount of salt almost brought a tear to my eye. Readers, you have no idea of the wave of happiness that rode over me when Cath came out with a portion of chips, stacked to the sky. More, there was even a deck chair for me to perch my behind on. These acts of kindness really do make the uncomfortable enjoyable. Thank you. (And yes, there was just the right amount of salt).
Day three was where things started to go wrong. After another terrible night’s sleep in my damp palace, I quickly realised that one of the bolts attaching the saddle to my bike (holding my tent and sleeping bag) had jumped off. No spare bolts to hand, so a twig would have to do. On I pushed past Northampton and towards Milton Keynes, taking meandering backroads which carved through the English countryside. As I stopped for a moment to take some water on and catch my breath, nature called. I took myself out of sight and proceeded to answer nature’s knock at the door, which was pounding rather loudly at this point.
Day three was where things started to go wrong.
Head in the clouds and itching to get back on my bike, I am soon itching for another reason. Hundreds, if not thousands of minuscule, crawling insects plagued my arms and legs. Swarming every inch of me from head to toe. Now, when I say every inch, I mean every inch. I decide that the best thing to do is to cycle on and hope that the wind brushes them off. I was wrong.
These pesky little creatures clung to me as if their life depended on it. I would erratically brush them off with my hands, only for them to reappear a few seconds later. Am I hallucinating? I cannot get rid of them. Maybe they’ve claimed me as their new land as though they were Columbus claiming America. Maybe I shall forevermore find myself intertwined with these pests.
Eventually, they seem to disappear, or at least they have decreased in numbers to the point where I don’t care anymore.
Come the evening I am in Watford, bracing myself for another night’s sleep in the damp palace. At least I know where I am now, 180 miles in and I have finally found my bearings. I am confident that tomorrow I will be able to say, “I have cycled home”.
I awake and get straight on the bike. No messing around today. On we push. It isn’t until I am deep into the heart of London that a little coffee shop perks up my interest and I persuade myself to stop for some respite. I look at the map on my phone to check where I am, halfway between Brentford and Ealing, the home stretch. The vague and fuzzy estimation of where I am quickly realises itself as a firm grip on my geographical location. Between you and me, I was secretly hoping that this eureka-moment of where I was would bring with it a spur of adrenaline and excitement which would carry me home. Nonetheless, this was not the case.
See, the problem with knowing where you are is that you also sadly understand what is to come next. Dorking is situated deep in the heart of the Surrey Hills, a title I usually adore. However, when you have not had a good night’s sleep in a few days and are having to physically push your legs down on the pedals with your hands, you suddenly wish that Surrey had no hills.
Those last 10 miles were torture, but they also brought me home and brought an end to my journey.
Relief washed over me like a current. I need not cycle a minute more, not that I wanted to. On the one hand, this was hands down the worst experience of my life. A damp and sweaty sleeping situation coupled with a gross lack of nutrition and overall exhaustion don’t usually tend to provide conditions for ecstasy. But on the other hand, my god was I proud of myself. The relief I felt was intertwined with a real sense of accomplishment, something that I haven’t experienced in such an obvious and forceful way, probably ever.
So no, I do not recommend cycling 241 miles on a push bike. But at the same time, yes, I do. Just make sure you prepare a lot more than I did.
Header image credit: Henry Knapp
