Willy Wonka

I rode about everywhere on my bike in my early 20's.

This was partly out of necessity because I did, not at that time, have use of a car nor in fact, and of more relevance, had I taken a driving test.

At that age when there is an overwhelming sense of immortality and invincibility and with a bit of fitness it was no problem just setting off with a water bottle, spares and a rain cape stuffed into the back pockets of my racing jersey and seeing where the roads and prevailing winds would take you. Fully loaded up to cope with most eventualities I did resemble the hunchback of Notre Dame.

For recreation and what I loosely termed 'training' as I did participate  in competitive cycle racing I could be quite ambitious in the distances covered although my common experience of being at the farthest possible point from home with no food, drink and a handful of loose change many might call recklessness.

Still, I did not have to make that phone call to my Father to be rescued or cadge a lift from anyone. It was just a case of fighting the hunger knock, hallucinations and fatigue and getting into a bit of a pedalling rhythm to cover the miles.

The proud boast about not calling for assistance is not strictly true.

I rode back to East Yorkshire from Nottingham where I was a student on a regular basis and in good calm weather I could do this in around 4 hours which, for a distance of 90 miles by the back roads through Newark, Lincoln and Brigg was surprisingly good.

I attempted the same journey on a Saturday during mid  February. Leaving the Trent Bridge area of Nottingham in conditions of light snow and sleet I was soon battling a strong and persistent head wind from the north east. I can cope with heat and rain when cycling but an unfavourable wind is horrible.

After ten hours of what can only be described as frantic, desperate and inadvisable head down riding I had only reached the Humber Bridge crossing. The wind had turned more to the east and increased in speed to a level that caused the Bridge Board to close the carriageway to high sided traffic.

In order to cope with the now cross-wind  I had to dismount and push my bike up the gradient of the bridge from the south bank. The wind was so strong that to proceed on foot and brace against being blown over involved walking and holding the bike at an acute angle so that I resembled an inverted 'V'. T

There was brief respite behind the large concrete blocks into which the suspension cables were secured and in the shelter of the main towers although on leaving the lee-side I was catapulted forward in the full, swirling maelstrom of the gale force.That was quite unnerving.

This last two miles of elevated road finished me off and I had no energy left to cope with the final 8 miles to Beverley. It was also getting dark and I had not accounted for the need to bring lights for what had always been more of a short hop than a long slog. I had after all reckoned that with an 8am departure I would  be home for a late lunch.

The arrival of my Father in the car park of the visitor centre was a most welcome sight. I however was certainly not much of a pleasant sight. My face was red raw with the wind. The exertion over the previous hours had caved in my cheeks and my eyes were deep set, in shadow and looked as though I had been in a fight. Dried salt from the sweat of effort caked my forehead, cheeks and chin. The family dog would later revel in licking my face and so address quite efficiently a sodium deficiency.

My clothing was baggy and damp. I can recommend a ten hour cycle to those looking to lose weight but perhaps attempting it in a single action is not the healthiest way to do it.

A hot bath awaited me at the house. As I lowered myself in to the welcoming warm bubbles I felt a mixture of emotions and bodily sensations. I found myself weeping with relief at getting through the self imposed ordeal.

My feet and toes were numb from cold and insertion into the steaming water caused a great deal of discomfort. Even more alarming was my observation that my genitals had somehow disappeared into my scrotum and I was only reassured some hours later when they popped back out again at room temperature.

Apparently, I had inadvertently discovered a genetic trait amongst the male human species whereby the undercarriage retracts when faced with peril, stress or adversity. I could empathise with my distant ancestors although I appreciate that I had only been on a tough bike ride on a cold day and not, as may have been the case in pre-history, chased down by the likes of a sabre toothed tiger or similar carnivore with a blood lust.