£2 for towel hire from YHA hostel Manchester
£1.75 for pot of tea, The Blue Bell pub, Monton near Eccles
£2.69 for tuna and sweet corn sandwich and Snicker bar, Mace Express at BP Garage, Atherton
£3.79 for 2 bottles of Magners pear cider from off license in Morecombe
£13.30 for meal in Morecombe Tandoori restaurant
The day didn't get off to a good start as one of my fellow dorm residents had a noisy start at 04:30. As a result I woke feeling sluggish and gritty eyed and sat in bed with a cup of tea whilst I wrote up my blog and the other dorm resident, an Australian who was travelling for 6 months, chatted to me about her solo travels.
The area outside the bike shed at the hostel was ideal for taking a look at my brakes so I sat there before breakfast, with another cup of tea, giving the Roberts a clean and getting rid of all the silt, muck, and debris that had accumulated on the wheel rims and brake pads. After cleaning them, I discovered that I didn't in fact need new pads at all, they had just needed a good clean. On putting everything back together, I unfortunately also discovered that I didn't know how to adjust the brakes on the Roberts, and the brakes were permanently jammed on. I decided to give the Harry Hall bike shop another visit to get the brakes sorted, as I wasn't riding anywhere otherwise.
Whilst eating my porridge pot with yet another cup of tea, I thought I should also get some more cycling maps for Manchester. I hadn't realised that there was a series of 10 to cover the whole city, and I'd only got the one for the central area the previous evening. To get me out of the city I'd need another 3 at least. The delay on leaving to swing by Piccadilly Gardens and pick more up would, I know, pay off by not getting lost and wasting time taking wrong turns on my way out of the city.
Andy at Harry Halls was amazingly helpful when I went in, shame-faced, and admitted that I didn't know how to adjust the brakes now that I'd cleaned them up. He fiddled with them for a about 15 minutes to get them right, then tightened the headset too as he noticed it was loose. I thought he'd finished when he disappeared out the back suddenly, but then he re-appeared with a paint brush and bottle of chain lube. He proceeded to clean all the nooks and crannies, included the rear cassette, with the paint brush, and suggested I do the same every day after the kind of riding I was doing. I commented that I'd ask my brother to bring a paint brush to Carlisle, and he handed me the one he'd been using. He also gave me the lube. When I asked how much he wanted, he laughed and said he just wanted to help me have a successful trip. He then rooted about in a box of spares, pulled out a toe clip strap, and showed me how to use it on the back brake lever to stop the bike shifting around when I lean it up against things for a break. He said he'd done a lot of touring and had picked up tips like this along the way. I insisted on putting some money in their charity box for his incredible service, and got him to take a photo of me outside the shop so I could spread the word about how brilliant they are.
After going to the Manchester Transport Office for more cycling maps, and standing in the office planning my route out of the city, I eventually set off at 12 noon. Not the quickest start, but a productive morning all in all.
I was aiming for Wigan via Salford and picked up a nice traffic free route through a lovely park when I came to a fork and didn't know which to take. A dog walker asked if I needed help, then told me where I'd gone wrong, but warned me that they were doing some work to the path further on, showing me on my city map where I could take a short detour by road. Manchester has such helpful people!
When I got to the part of the path where the work was being done, I was amused to see that two signs showed pedestrians where to go, but there was nothing for cyclists. In addition, the only alternative to turning back on myself was a steep set of steps. I sighed as the panniers came off and I took them to the top of the steps before returned for the bike. Unfortunately, I was beginning to get used to this ritual when confronted by a set of steps or an extremely steep slope.
I attempted to pick up the cycle route further on, but began to circle around on myself to find it. Stood at a junction, I noticed that the A road I was looking at went straight to Wigan. Apologies, Sustrans, but I joined the A57 for several miles to Wigan, mixing it with the school run traffic, and took my day's average speed up as I pedalled along on the smooth Tarmac and gently rolling route. I even stopped at a petrol station to buy a sandwich, which felt incongruous as I stood on the forecourt in my Lycra being watched by the motorists filling up with their very different kind of fuel.
Having reached Wigan, I rejoined my Sustrans routes and had some lovely sections of canal paths, wooded traffic free paths, and quiet roads.
At Chorley it began to rain, so I put my waterproof jacket and gloves on and was grateful that I'd put my Sealskinz waterproof socks on that morning when I'd checked the weather forecast.
By the time I got to Preston, however, I could see that continuing on the Sustrans routes to Morecombe was impossible if I was to arrive my 10pm, the time I'd been told the hotel reception closed. It was 7pm and dusk by this time, so I put all my lights on and followed the main road signs for Lancaster, hoping that the signs for the M6 would also lead me to the A6. I'd reasoned with myself that since the two roads were parallel, all the heavy traffic would use the motorway, leaving the A6 relatively quiet.
I was only partly correct in my assumptions. I was now the tail end of the rush hour, so the traffic on the A6 was heavy, but there weren't too many big lorries. It was 20 miles to Lancaster, so I hunkered down on the relatively flat road and dug deep to just get to Lancaster as quickly as I could. Even though this was a major route, I passed through countryside with the familiar smells and sounds of livestock and had many sections where no cars appeared and I was on my own. I also saw lots of other cyclists. They must have been keen commuters or out training since the weather really wasn't inviting and whilst the A6 is a very direct route between Lancaster and Preston, I wouldn't have chosen it for my regular evening ride. It's long and straight though, so a good one for practicing time trialling and doing interval training I suppose.
The rain got heavier, the puddles increased, and the spray from vehicles became irritating. As dusk turned to darkness, I noticed how noisy heavy traffic in rain is. At times I was shouting at the lorries for their spray, or cursing the pot holes hidden in the puddles I was forced in to, and I couldn't actually hear my voice above the din of car tyres on wet Tarmac. I missed my quiet country lanes, canal paths, and disused railway lines.
By the time I reached Lancaster (grid locked at 8:30pm!), I was saddle sore, angry, and had a squelching right foot where I'd obviously tested the 'waterproof' Sealskinz socks to their limit and beyond. My hands were also feeling distinctly damp in their 'waterproof' Sealskinz gloves.
Turning towards Morecombe I felt relieved that I would get to the hotel in time, despite my increasingly pessimistic calculations as I had cycled from Preston to Lancaster. I was also pleased at how the extender bar for the front light had held up well, being more reliable than it had back in Cornwall.
I knew there was a pretty traffic-free route between Lancaster and Morecombe but decided I'd only take it if parallel to the main road and well lit as I didn't want any further delays to my arrival in a dry warm place. I was cycling along a cycle path next to a pavement just outside Lancaster when I noticed a man ahead of me who turned his head briefly when he saw the flashing light from my head-torch illuminating a road sign (scared of an accident in the rain and dark, I was wearing my head torch on flash mode as well as having the front light on the bike, and had two flashing rear lights going too). As I passed him he said "weirdo" just loud enough for me to hear. He was alone, so definitely had me in mind when he said this, though didn't really shout it as such. I'd heard other cyclists having this experience of being called a weirdo, but I'd never experienced it myself, so pondered the lack of appreciation of diversity in the UK despite all the rhetoric to the contrary.
When I could see the glow of Morecombe's neon signs in the distance my spirits began to lift a little. Approaching a flood that covered my half of the road, I glanced behind to check it was safe for me to move out, saw a car approaching but not too close, so pulled out so that I would be central in the lane and, whilst still riding through the water, at least hope to hit in in a less deep part. I heard the car behind me rev and speed up, then deliberately drive fast through the flood water beside me, entirely soaking me from head to toe on my right side. I was furious but powerless. When I pulled over at Morecombe train station to phone the Clifton Hotel and ask to be given directions for the last part, I'd had a serious sense of humour failure.
The person on reception who answered my call had English as their second, or maybe third, language. Their directions were appalling so I interrupted them to simply ask "so, exactly how many left turns do I take?" to find out only one, he'd just been describing it in several different ways. He was surprised to learn that I was cycling, and equally surprised to find that I'd booked and pre-paid for my room the night before, saying "are you sure?"
I didn't arrive at the hotel in a good mood, it has to be said. The 'secure bicycle parking' which was advertised (I'd found this hotel through the Beds for Cyclists website) was in fact the entertainment suite downstairs from the main lobby, but in full view from the road. The receptionist seemed surprised when I said I wanted to lock my bike up before going to my room, explaining that they'd had lots of bikes in there before. Not whilst they'd had a Karaoke night on, I bet.
I didn't think the evening could get any worse. Then it did.
It was 9:15pm so I knew my choice of places to eat would be limited. I'd resigned myself to several bags of crisps with pint of ale if need be, so asked if there were any pubs nearby that served food. I hadn't noticed any as I'd ridden along the seafront, which had surprised me as I'd expected a seaside town to have lots of pubs, but perhaps the locals knew of some tucked away behind the Esplanade.
"No, there are no pubs" I was told. Not even pubs with food. Just no pubs.
I explained that I was desperate to eat.
I was recommended the Tandoori take away next door to the hotel. I wondered where I was supposed to eat a take away, but had lost the will to live so just took my room key and squelched up the stairs to my room.
Getting out of wet clothes is a lovely feeling. Knowing you have to go out in the rain again to find food is not. I didn't bother to shower, just towel dried my hair as best I could, changed into non cycling clothes and flip flops, and ventured next door. As I began to sit down, I saw 3 people walk in clutching bottles of beer. Another restaurant without an alcohol license. I thought one on this trip was enough.
I really needed alcohol after the ride I'd had since Chorley, so asked the three people where they'd got their booze from (since the waiter had forgotten to mention the lack of license to me when I came in, I figured he wouldn't be particularly helpful now). I sighed as I went out into the driving rain again.
Morecombe really is a dump. I passed more shut down premises than open ones, some burnt out shells of former shops, and half ripped off hoardings. It felt like the film set for a disaster movie rather than a British seaside resort.
When I found the off licence, I couldn't read most of the labels as they were in a foreign language. I asked if they had cans of bitter and the sales assistant showed me the Carlsberg. I asked if she had any cold ones, as the display I was looking at ('display' is used loosely here) was on open shelves. She then showed me a fridge tucked around a corner. Rather than sample an unknown foreign brew, I looked for something I knew. Magners pear cider was my choice.
Returning to the Tandoori restaurant (which also does take away, but had 6 customers sat down at tables once I returned) with my plain carrier bag of booze, I sat down. I was actually past the point of hunger, or caring about much in the world, but ordered food because I knew logically my body needed it.
Having eaten, but not feeling satisfied, drank, but not feeling merry, I trudged back next door to my sad little single room with wet cycling clothes draped over every surface possible. I fell asleep wondering what I'd do if it was still raining in the morning.
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