Skin is waterproof.
This truism encapsulates the bullish approach I took when setting off to cycle across the UK from Tynemouth to Whitehaven in February 2014, over the course of two days. I was ‘prepared’ …riding in swimming shorts rather than cycling shorts because the chances of rain were high. Also because I didn’t own a pair of cycling shorts at the time.
The trip turned into a delightfully miserable and memorable misadventure. Cycling with two friends, our trio of triers eventually saw neither coast.
Our optimism about the possibility of connecting from central Newcastle to Tynemouth (the East coast) via train was unfounded, so we attempted to cycle there. After an hour or so, we began to wonder something was wrong. The distance was just 16 kilometres, so should have taken about 40 minutes. Beyond imaginary scents of the sea breeze, there were no signs of the coast.
We checked our GPS location and found that we were about 40 kilometres inland. Our chosen cycle path followed the Tyne. Not accounting for the fact that the Tyne is tidal, we had followed it in the wrong direction.
Cycling 40 kilometres back to the coast was out of the question, so we ploughed on in the hope of reaching Carlisle, our planned overnight stop.
One of my companions had transformed his fitness in the couple of years immediately prior to our ride, going from 130kg to 80kg. I found it really special to witness his experience of the ride. He had never completed anything like this – travelling over self-powered 100 kilometres in a day – and was clearly euphoric as we wended our way westwards along a country road close to Hadrian’s Wall.
Then it started hailing and his brakes failed. I was ahead, and with hail stinging my frozen hands and thighs, I stopped and curled up at the side of the road to wait for the storm to pass.
My friends caught up and we continued, negotiating the steeper descents on foot. Soaked, we sought shelter in a pub that graciously opened earlier than usual, allowing us to perch on their radiators. The landlady provided a huge pot of tea, charging us just £3. Shivering and hardly speaking, each of us probably wished he was at home and warm.
As the rain eased, we traipsed on towards Carlisle. My two companions took a train for the final few kilometres, while I continued pedalling (out of pride).
That evening, we were welcomed into a friend’s place and reflected on the day over gigantic takeaway pizzas. Melted cheese is a restorative substance.
Waking up the next day, we considered our options. Our train home from Whitehaven was due to pass back through Carlisle, presenting the possibility of aborting the trip and simply catching the train home in the afternoon.
The rain had returned, but I was determined to complete the final 75 kilometres of cycling. My sense of direction was poor, and I pedalled in circles for an hour and a half before giving up and returning to Carlisle. With our grand plans thoroughly torpedoed, we went to the cinema before catching the train home that afternoon.
Looking back, our haplessness makes me smile. We completely underestimated the difficulty of following a poorly-marked cycle route, in awful weather, on unreliable bicycles.
I’m grateful for the fact that we avoided any serious incidents, completing (well, making) our journey on quite a well-travelled route, with working phones and enough cash to get ourselves out of trouble if need be.
Completing the coast-to-coast route would have given a sense of satisfaction, but the fact that our plans fell apart made it much more memorable.