I was tired and, after the first proper long distance cycle ride this year, keen to just get home and rest weary legs, stiff shoulders and a more than inflammed nether region what with a new saddle not yet broken in. I could remember the Yellow Pages Advert from 1985 with a concerned father watching his son ride off on his first racing bike and saying in a strong Yorkshire accent "I was right about that saddle".
The old railway track, now part of a long distance route from Hornsea on the east coast to Southport on the other side of the country was busy with family groups on two wheels or accompanied by dogs and push chairs just enjoying the open air of a bright spring afternoon.
The first leg of the ride from Hull to the seaside had been a breeze even so early in the season and I was pleased with what appeared to be a reasonable level of fitness for my 50 plus years. The reason for this was obvious however when starting from the Promenade on the return ride because I was having difficulty standing up straight in a howling westerly gale.
I was not looking forward to the next 20 miles or so.
Earlier on just as I was leaving the outskirts of Hull a group of 6 teenagers could be heard behind me in typical high spirits, singing, shouting and with no sense of self consciousness about such things. They were on bikes and gradually making progress on closing the gap to me. There is nothing better on a bike ride to see someone up ahead on the road or track and mark them down as a target to catch and overtake. Of course, you have to make a broad judgement on whether they could be caught and this is based on their clothing style and pedalling style. For example, a high-viz jacket could be either a worker going home after a long shift and eminently capable of being overtaken or a seasoned and wily veteran plodding along but with a good average speed. I was fooled once with the sight in the distance of a very elderly man stooped over his handlebars but try as I might I could not make up any ground on him. It was only, some miles later when I saw him leaving a newsagents with a pack of cigarettes that I realised that he was on one of those powered cycles.
I like to think that I might be perceived as being in the wily category when viewed from behind whereas to the group of lads I probably resembled a portly middle aged gent and therefore a legitimate target to be chased down and overtaken.
In a good strategic move I pulled over at a bridge parapet at one of the many land drains that criss-cross the lowlands east of Hull and pretended to fiddle with my mechanical bits and pump up my tyres.
The group whizzed past and I heard one of them remark that " it looks like that mister stole that bike" as if it was ridiculous for me to be in possession of a bright white and fancy mountain bike.
I kept my head bowed so as not to provoke more hurtful comments but glimpsed the most rag-tag assortment of bikes from pink girls to jump bike, small wheeled shopper, racer and commuter versions. All probably borrowed with haste from sisters, younger brothers, mother, dad and neighbour to capitalise on a day out in nice weather.
As well as the variety of machines what struck me was the accompanying soundtrack of wheels rubbing on seat stays, sticky and squeaky brake blocks, creaky crank sets, stiff and jumping chains and general rattling of loose lugs and fittings.
This gave me a bit of reassurance in that there was no way in which that collection of boneshakers and write-offs could possibly make it all the way to Hornsea. The cacophonous posse were soon out of sight up the old railway course as I set off at my own, brisk but not too taxing pace.
Surprisingly I came across them within a couple of miles in between the old platforms and converted and occupied station house of a rural village. They had stopped to discard clothing to keep cool, have a collective wee-wee and have mock battles amongst themselves with fallen branches, bricks and stones. I do not think that they even noticed me as I cruised past with smooth pedalling style. Frequent glances back over my shoulder did not indicate that they were in close pursuit again.
At the seafront kiosk I treated myself to a cone of chips, four deep fried doughnut rings and a polystyrene cup of sweet, sweet coffee. The extra calories would be sorely needed into the head wind for the return. I convinced myself that the carbohydrates, sugars and fats would be well out of my system by the time I got home. There was nothing else open on the Promenade and so I expected the lads to make a bee-line here when they reached the town.
They were no-show.
As I resumed the long distance path I fully expected to be confronted by their arrival in an almost boy band tribute, singing and in high spirits. It was not until I was in sight of the old rural station that I realised that the group had got no further than that.
Something mechanical must have befallen one or more of the two wheeled wrecks. Sure enough, a bike was upside down on the cinder path surrounded by the lads and with an old man with a toolbox in attendance. He can only have come from the old station house given the remoteness of the surroundings.
Conflicted voices in my head muttered simultaneously, "ride on regardless", "stop and ask if they need help", you don't have to stop", "ask if they have tools", "keep going chump", "what if it was you?". My more considerate conscience won through and I pulled up to see if I could do anything.
Ironically, it was the better of the bikes that had problems. A seriously buckled back wheel lay half in and out of the rear stays. The tyre was bald so as to see the reinforcement where the tread should have been. The chain was twisted and wedged around the axle. I could not see that there had been any gear mechanism for some time, nor working brakes. One good thing in the interests of transmission was that the chain was very well oiled. The downside was that in manhandling it to clear the wheel most of the sticky gunk went on my hands.
It took three of us to prize open the rear stays, re-align the back wheel and tighten up the bolts on the axle. The chain, doubled up and contorted had to be unraveled like an arthritic snake.
After considerable effort the bike looked more like a bike.
I would like to say all of those hours spent under the bedclothes studying repair manuals and "how-to" books was successfully put into practice in this instance but sadly, the buckled wheel was past salvation.
It would be a very long walk, or rather bike drag back to Hull for the unfortunate cyclist after all.
The group were appreciative of my efforts but looked a bit disappointed at me as though I should be a miracle worker, what with my flashy bike, fancy gear and high viz rain jacket. I like to think that, perhaps, If we were on the same path again at some time in the not too distant future they would just let me ride off into the distance, respectful and all that.
No comments:
Post a Comment