Eat up the miles

It was only intended to be a short bike ride to the end of the road and back.

It would, over that short distance, be sufficient to get used to the riding position, gear shifting, braking and steering of my new off roader. 

Of course, it is essential to be wearing the correct gear even for a test ride and so I was attired in lycra knee length shorts emblazoned withe the logo of the local bike shop, a gawdily coloured trade team jersey and hard shell racing helmet.

In the somewhat distorted reflection of the hatchback of the family car I had the physique and demeanour of when I was in my twenties and actually competing in road races. I left it at that, satisfied in the image that I portrayed but kept it in mind not to glance sideways in any plate glass shop windows whose reflective image never lies and indeed can add a few extra pounds to add insult to obesity.

Fully intending to just ride up and down a bit I did not bother with my usual backpack full of spare inner tubes, puncture repair kits, assorted Allen keys, chain link tool, rainy day cape and full car foot pump. After a few passes of the front door that feeling of well being and alertness overwhelmed my better judgement and I found myself, in warmish mid October sunlight , heading out of the inner city along one of my favourite and well used trails. It was the course of the old railway line which wound its way along the back fences of the terraced houses, crossing a few of the main arterial roads, deep land drain cuttings and then through the weekend deserted industrial estate towards the modern residential estates on the very edges of the suburban sprawl.

I had supreme confidence in the mechanical condition of the brand new bike. It had a good pedigree, and the knobbly tyres just zipped along with minimum contact on the red tarmac of the track, or at least where the old rail track used to be.

After the congestion of the route as a consequence of the upsurge of interest in cycling in the summer months it was nice to have the way to myself save for the occasional dad with infant in buggy, dog walkers and youths clutching their beer cans, still shirtless even with the oncoming autumnal chill. Parts of the track were slippery with fallen leaves and the gypsy horses tethered on the verge had left a few prominent piles of dung which presented a challenge to avoid. There was the usual scattering of broken glass at the cut throughs from the housing estate, mattresses discarded in the hedgerows and a few electrical appliances protruding from the deeper vegetation. These things just added more colour to the glorious afternoon which had been unexpected after a few days of damp, misty weather.

I was flying along, further and further away in distance and intention from my original plan.

I reached the extent of the built up areas. The track carried on between the freshly ploughed fields. Its eventual terminus to the north east was a small seaside town and as a destination for a ride in season it was excellent with promenade tea shops and a broad outlook onto the sometimes azure haze of the North Sea.

However, anything not needed by the actual residents shut down at the end of September and there were scarce pickings to be had. I decided to just carry on to the first hamlet and then turn back which would give me enough time to devise an alternative route back to base. The ride went smoothly and I felt in very good form, surprisingly so after a bit of a lay-off from cycling and indeed any meaningful and beneficial exercise.

Passing back into civilisation I swung north on the public road to pick up another old railway course which ran back into the old part of the city. I estimated that my original 100 metre and back ride had now attained the ten mile distance mark.

It was at that moment at the gateway to a secondary school that my back tyre completly deflated down to the scrunching sound of the rim on concrete.

I was, as was typical, at the farthest point away from the house. I instinctively reached around for the backpack, the constant companion for the summer rides out before realising the folly and error of my impulse and downright stupidity.

I stopped riding as that would complicate the problem and resigned myself to progressing on foot.

In the far distance was the tall, slim and somewhat wonky smokestack which was exactly one mile from my house. Unfortunately I was about two miles away from the landmark itself. Walking along in full gear pushing a lame bike utilises a completely different set of muscles and I was now, of course directly carrying my own body weight rather than through the spring and elasticity of a frame, handlebars and chunky tyres. The shin splints were at first excruciating and then, surprisingly, got progressively worse. I strode out, stretched and lunged, skipped a bit, danced a jig and broke into a half jog to try to ease the pain. It didn't help.

Resting as much of my upper body on the stricken bike did give some relief but gave the impression that I was drunk in charge. Small children shouted to enquire what I had done as they stopped whatever they were up to between the houses. A few cars honked their horns, their occupants no doubt giggling at the old jokes of "get off and milk it" or "your back wheel's going round, mate" and other classics.

The three miles on foot dragged by.

I did discover a couple of shortcuts that I would have hesitated to use on two wheels and they must have shaved some tens of metres off my trek. I was by now beyond the large chimney and could spy the copper tinted dome of my local swimming baths, or old slipper baths as they used to be called.

I was in part elated mood, brought on more by lack of energy than being in sight of home.

It was time to rehearse the story I would recount to the family to explain my absence of two hours rather than the intended couple of minutes. I had cycled and almost got to running pace on foot so that would represent two out of the three disciplines in a very compact but Ironman style competition. Just seeing the top of the Municipal Baths was not sufficient to qualify for the swimming element to be met. I then remembered that my son had ,for that Sunday tea, prepared his famous dish of savoury mince with onions, garlic, carrots and peas under a thick buttered layer of mashed potato. It would just need warming up in the dish in the oven.

I decided to add it to my sporting endeavours for that afternoon as the third event in what I could legitimately refer to as a Shepherds Pie-athlon.