Ready for the off…
Well this turned out to be one of my best days on a bike. We (our valiant leader Andy B, Paul H, Matt, Derek, Tim and I) set off at the unearthly hour of 7 a.m from the Anderton Boat Lift – along the 100 mile route that is the Cheshire Ring. If you’re in a boat you’d take 6 days over it, but we only had one. That would have been fine if the tow path was universally smooth and rideable – but it wasn’t. So off we set – five on mountain bikes, me on Kev’s cyclo cross bike. We expected a lot of punctures, thanks to Dave Fearon’s dire warnings, so poor Andy carried a track pump all the way round. And we expected a fair bit of boredom, all in exchange for no hills. Well, we were wrong on all counts.
Off we set, via Preston Brook, Stockton Heath, Lymm, Sale (for coffee), Manchester, Marple (for lunch), Macclesfield, Kidsgrove (for tea), Sandbach and Middlewich.
The ride in numbers: 6 riders, 100 miles, only 2 punctures (Dave please note!), one minor injury, one near fall into the river, 12 hours in total, 8 hours 15 minutes of riding, average speed 12.3mph (varying from stretches at 18 mph to others at 6 mph) and surprisingly, 1300 feet of ascent. Here is our minor injury, caused when Andy fell into a fence:
A big plaster for a tiny graze
The canal network is an incredible Victorian achievement which I’d never before understood. The canals are such a direct and efficient way to get from A to B. Under roads, over rivers, alongside railways, through towns (some of which you don’t even see, even though you’re right in the middle of them), up and down hills (negotiating our way up fleets of locks up at Marple, and then down all the way from Kidsgrove to Wheelock). The infrastructure is all there still: tunnels, bridges, aqueducts, steps, lock gates, sluice gates, stairways. Manchester was the highlight – we suddenly found ourselves at Old Trafford, then we popped up in the city centre, then before we knew it, we were at Man City and the velodrome. Here we are at Canal Street (I’ll let you work out what the third letter is)…
Feel the love…
and here we are just having popped up in the middle of Castlefields via a network of tunnels and steps and little stone bridges…
We find ourselves in Castlefields
And what was the day like? A string of fleeting impressions. Beautiful warm, sunny weather. Constantly changing surfaces – sometimes smooth and fast, with Tim B at the front and the rest of us strung out on his wheel chewing our handlebars at 18 mph – but mostly much more challenging – stony, rooty, uneven, cobbled, at worst we were just ploughing our way through thick long grass and weeds trying to keep our tyres rolling; or opting for the alternative, which was Derek’s preferred approach, balancing on the 18″ wide paving on the edge of the canal. At least the surfaces were dry and hard-packed. Regular sharp braking to duck under the many bridges or avoid killing pedestrians, dogs and small children, (with much polite ringing of Tim’s and Paul’s bells,”thank yous” “sorry” and “good mornings” to reduce the chances of anyone writing to the WVCC club secretary to complain about us) and then once we’d slowed down, efforts to accelerate again back up to cruising speed. Technical sections up and over steep cobbled bridges and steps (Tim somehow managed to ride most of these). The constant need for concentration, because any lapse meant ending up in the river (Paul very nearly succumbed when he was attacked by some cow parsley which viciously wrapped its tentacles around his wrist). After every 15 miles of so of riding, we had to stop to straighten out our backs/ease our achey bits.
Another stop, another lock
…and ever-changing scenery: lush fields, verges full of wild flowers, hills and moors appearing in our peripheral vision, grassy banks by the locks, and with a blink, jumping from rural to urban: past warehousing and factories, into some of the beautiful and imaginative modern development in central Manchester. A long dark tunnel with no light at all and only a handrail to move along tentatively, not knowing what was underneath; other tunnels which were inaccessible and we had to ride over a hill to get to the other side. Endless strings of narrowboats moored along the canal, some decorated with colourful plant pots, some with pretty gardens established on an appropriated adjacent canal bank. Most lovingly painted; one in Mondrian style. Wildlife too: herons flying, buzzards soaring, rabbits scuttling, baby ducks in long lines, hundreds of Canadian Geese around Manchester and young cows coming down to the canal to drink. And the midges you swallowed if you kept your mouth open, which we soon learned not to.
And so many people. Not just my five comrades who were unremittingly funny and kind; but all the other people we met. The beautiful young girls in pyjamas opening up locks at 8 a.m. (now Titch if you’d known about that you’d have come, wouldn’t you?!); the Irish guy in Sale when we stopped for coffee, who told us we were wearing County Cork colours (is that true?); the many dog walkers and pedestrians who greeted us warmly despite the irritation of having to stop and let us past. Drunken youths in Manchester (at 11 a.m.) who cheered Matthew on (“There’s only one Bradley Wiggins”). We’d stopped to work out which of several canals we should be following, but this encouraged them mightily, and thinking their affection might turn, Andy decreed “any canal will do, let’s just get out of here”. At which point his attempted track stand failed and he attracted even more cat calling. Narrow-boat owners with long flowing grey hair, beards and sandals…and yes, pipes. The fat bloke with the pit bull who, when we went past, shouted out “you’re not allowed to ride bikes on the tow path, there’s a bye law against it”. The crowds in the pubs we passed, enjoying the sunshine; and the girls on the cruise boats, also inebriated (were we the only sober ones on the canal?) inviting us to join them for a drink (I don’t think it was me they were after but hey ho).
We dropped Paul off in Middlewich (he’d already done the Middlewich to Northwich section in the morning). Andy did try to persuade him that he wouldn’t get his certificate if he didn’t come back to Northwich with us, but he was having none of it. The last ten miles from Middlewich were the hardest: the path was mostly non existent. By this time we were all knackered (well maybe all apart from Tim and Matthew) and we stopped 7 miles from home for emergency food (in Andy’s case a whole malt loaf which he’d carried around all day) to give us enough energy to get us back. Most of us by this time were complaining of bad backs/sore bums/painful bits (in my case, having ridden without suspension all day, I had blisters on the palms of my hands. Some of the others looked like they’d been self-harming, with scratches on their arms from brambles).
One of the nicest things about the day was the way in which we stuck together, and the stronger riders looked after those of us who got tired. And so we finished, exactly 12 hours after we’d started. What a day! One I will remember with great pleasure and some pride, when I’m very old and no longer up to riding my bike. Thanks so much to Andy for the idea, and to everyone for your great company and the A* banter.
Home again, after 12 hours…