With all my races cancelled this year, I decided to set myself a couple of personal challenges this year to provide some focus to my training. There was a long ride to the Humber Bridge, accompanying some friends who were completing their very first century ride. There was the run around the lap of The Wakefield Wheel. And this week was an attempt to cycle the length of the Leeds-Liverpool Canal.
The plan was simple enough. Catch the early train to Liverpool, find the end of the canal, and follow it the 200km back to Leeds. The good thing about riding along a canal is that it follows the low ground, so tends to be a flat route. The bad thing about riding along a canal is that it follows the low ground, so tends to go all round the sodding houses and takes hours to get anywhere.
I knew the terrain would be a little erratic – a mixture of trail and tarmac, so I was riding my Boardman cyclocross bike. I don’t have a mountain bike, and I’ve ridden the cross bike over all sorts of crap surfaces, so I figured I’d be fine. I had lots of food and hydration tabs packed in a couple of bags strapped to the bike. I knew I would have to find water as I went along, but apart from that I’d be self-sufficient.
The train was a bit stressful. My first time on public transport since The ‘Rona, but it was ridiculously early so there were no crowds. Nevertheless, I dutifully donned the facemask and caught the 0600 from Leeds. The first problem came when it became apparent I would have to change at Manchester. Not the end of the world, but when I booked it, I’d picked a direct train. Apparently the timetable had changed since I booked it. I can handle a change of trains, but this meant I would arrive in Liverpool forty minutes later than originally planned. I was already behind schedule and I wasn’t even in Lancashire yet.
When I arrived in Liverpool, I swapped the facemask for the helmet and mounted up, negotiating my way across the mercifully quiet city centre to find the canal. I located the blunt end of the waterway and stopped to take a souvenir photograph. As I pedalled away with the photo captured, I felt the ominous spongy rumble of a flat back tyre. “YOU ARE FUCKING KIDDING!” Sorry, Bootle.
Within sight of, but not yet actually ON the canal and I had a flat. Less than 2km in. Still no idea what caused it.
Now here is the part where I really screwed up, and I only have myself to blame.
I changed my tube pretty quickly, and checked the tyre for obstructions. All good. Pulled out my brand new CO2 pump and screwed in a cartridge. After inflating the tube, I was having a bit of trouble pulling the pump off the valve. A bit of a wiggle. A good yank. Huh… what’s going on with this? I gave it a good smack and the pump came away. With the valve still attached. The now completely useless tube rapidly deflated and was left feeling incredibly foolish. I looked up and saw a woman standing outside her house, sucking on a ciggy and looking at me like I was an alien.
“I don’t suppose you’ve got a bike pump, have you?” I asked, as much to break the tension as in hope of a positive answer.
“You’re joking…” she replied in a Scouse accent as thick as an Atomic Kitten, “Do I look like I ride a bike?” She stomped out her fag and went back indoors.
I had one more tube and one more CO2 cartridge. The tension was unbearable. I mentioned that the pump was brand new, and this is my only defence – I couldn’t figure out how to properly connect it to the valve. However, there is no doubt at all that this was entirely my fault. I should’ve practised this long before now. Human error. My error. Nobhead.
This time, I erred the other way and held the pump onto the valve with less force than the first time. It worked, in that the CO2 went into the tube, and the pump came off safely without damaging the tube. However, my caution meant that way too much of the gas escaped into the atmosphere and I was left with a tyre inflated to about 15psi. It was rideable, but I had created two huge problems for myself. Firstly, the low pressure meant that the increased friction had just made the entire journey harder as I dragged the bike along. Secondly, I knew that any particularly nasty pothole or jolt would give me an immediate pinch flat.
Oh, and thirdly, I HAD NO MORE SPARES BECAUSE I HAD JUST SPAFFED EVERYTHING INTO THE AIR BEFORE I EVEN REACHED THE BASTARD CANAL.
I was now well over an hour behind schedule. 200km to go.
I set off on the tarmac paths through Bootle, feeling anxious and wondering about my chances of making it to Leeds. Within 4km, there was a makeshift fence along the path and a “temporary closure” sign barring my way. Looking back this was no big deal – a quick look at my map, and I found a parallel road to allow me to rejoin the canal a little further along – but at the time, I was absolutely livid. I wasn’t to know this would be one of only two occasions I was forced to leave the waterway, and I just thought things were going from bad to worse.
The first few miles were okay physically, as the canal took me through the suburbs of Liverpool. The tarmac wasn’t particularly smooth, and I had to keep pushing on the pedals. I was still worried, and it would take over an hour of riding before the anxiety dissipated, and I stopped gritting my teeth waiting for the puncture to happen.
My grumbles about the slightly uneven tarmac would quickly disappear as we left Liverpool, and the canalside route became a random collection of rutted mud paths and shale, interrupted by cobbles as we passed old mill buildings and pubs. With a surface so uneven and testing, there’s a need for constant effort. Between concentrating on what’s coming up, and driving the bike forward over every lump and bump, this route is a serious endeavour. For some stretches, I found I couldn't take a drink for five or ten minutes as there was no opportunity to take a hand off the bars.
The gradient is flat, but that means no downhills, and that means constant effort. The Sundowner Triathlon – with its pan flat 90km bike route – is a popular race for first timers at the distance, but I maintain that bike course is horribly unforgiving and would always prefer a bit of undulation. The same went today. After a couple of hours of unrelenting pedalling, I would’ve given anything for a little climb in order to rest my legs going down the other side.
Unfortunately the climb didn’t come until Wigan, 60km into the ride, and the descent “down the other side” wouldn’t come till Skipton – and that was another 70km away. I had been forced to consult my map in Wigan, as the path crossed a main road, and I wasn’t sure how to proceed. But as soon as I clipped back in, and bounced gingerly over the cobbles back down to the waterside, the canal turned 90 degrees left. Abruptly, there was a series of steep climbs ahead as the path followed a series of twenty one locks. It was a steep climb followed by a very short false flat, before repeating. It looked like it would’ve been a lot more fun to descend, but as I inched my way up this unexpected interval session, I couldn’t help thinking how long it would take to navigate a boat through twenty one locks. At one point, for a brief period in the nineteenth century, this was the most efficient form of transport known to humanity.
Actually there were several occasions, usually on one of the long stretches between pockets of civilisation, where I found my mind wandering and pictured barges full of coal and steel being transported to the port in Liverpool. Slowly steaming its way along this dirty waterway that cuts through the country. I guess the Industrial Revolution can be quite romantic when you are only imagining it.
This anecdote serves to illustrate another point about this route. It is, I’m afraid, pretty boring. I spent most of the time scanning the terrain ahead for the root or pothole that would end my journey, but even when I did look up and take in my surroundings, those surroundings were inevitably… a canal. For hours and hours.
When you consider Wigan to be a highlight of the journey, you know you’re in trouble. I actually stopped and took a selfie with Wigan’s football ground in the background. A more soulless sports stadium you will not find, and yet this felt worthy of a photograph because it was NOT A BLOODY CANAL.
I could tell I was getting frazzled when, just after Chorley, I made a minor navigational error and took the wrong direction along a short tributary instead of following the main canal. It cost me a few hundred metres and maybe five minutes as I figured out where I was, but I was absolutely furious with myself, and with the canal, and with the bloody back tyre, and with everything.
I decided to take a break and refill my water bottles at the next opportunity, so pressed on to Blackburn, where I briefly left the canal to ride up to a petrol station for a bottle of water, a flapjack and a cheeky Cherry Coke – a secret joy that I only ever consume when on long rides.
Riding up the smooth tarmac road to the garage only reinforced what a drag this half flat tyre had been, but I confess that I enjoyed the brief moment of freewheeling back down to the canal. The first stretch that I’d been able to stop pedalling since I got off the train.
With a spring in my stride, and half a litre of Cherry Coke burbling in my belly, I got back onto the canal. I haven’t mentioned the bridges yet. Every few hundred yards, the towpath would narrow and transport me under a road or railway bridge that crossed the water. In all these cases I had to slow down, bump through the dark and inevitably cobbled underpass, and then pull myself back up to speed. This destroyed any sense of rhythm and added to the difficulty.
I mention it now, because it was no more than 3km after my stop that I encountered the umpteenth one of these bridges. The visibility was low, and there was a puddle, so I slowed, stood up in the pedals and rolled through, expecting to add to the impressive collection of Lancastrian mud building up on my shins.
THUMP. I knew instantly that the pinch flat I had been dreading had happened, as my rim slammed into some unseen obstacle beneath the murky water. I rolled out of the bridge’s shadow already swearing with some creativity before I looked down for my eyes to confirm what my bum already felt. A flat tyre. Game over.
I entertained the possibility of walking back into Blackburn to find a bike shop and buy more spares, but my heart wasn’t in it. By the time I had done that, I worked out, I’d be about three and a half hours behind my planned schedule. Let’s call it a day, and come back better prepared. I was going to head back to find a train, but I called my friend Sarah. She’d been due to meet me in Skipton to accompany me for the final section, so I had been updating her throughout the morning. Like a St Bernard in a Land Rover, she offered to come and pick me up. Who was I to argue?
After consulting my map, I found that I was about ten minutes’ walk from a service station on the Blackburn Ring Road, so I left the canal and fell into the warm embrace of a Gregg’s sausage roll and a very welcome cup of tea. (Pro tip for tea drinkers – Gregg’s tea is FAR superior to the substandard brew available at Starbucks.)
I sat in the sun and reflected on the ride. Having been so annoyed early on, I’d already worked through the various stages of grief, and I was now at acceptance. I’d had some bad luck, but compounded it with a little bit of poor preparation. Ah well… shit happens.
I had cycled 100km, but felt like I had done a lot more than that. I’d worked hard and had a tough day in the saddle on the lumps and bumps. What are the lessons learned for a second attempt?
I need to start earlier. That means staying over the night before, and getting on the road – or on the crappy path – by 6am. Obviously, I need to not be such a fat handed twat with my CO2 pump, but there’s a serious point about having tools that work and give you confidence. Already bought a new one. More spare tubes, just in case? Probably, but heavier duty tyres would certainly be a sensible addition.
It’s a bigger task than I thought, and I admit I underestimated it. That’s what these challenges are all about, though. Exploration and learning. In that sense, it was a good day. I’ll be back for another crack at it soon enough.