Manchester to Blackpool

In answer to the earlier question posted regarding my fitness, the answer is yes and no. Am I fit enough to complete a 100k bike ride, yes, just, and probably never again. I hadn’t prepared as well as I should, and I knew this but I kept convincing myself as I sat in front of Coronation St with a large brew and endless supply of Chocolate Digestives that, because I had managed a couple of 30 mile rides, that 62 point whatever miles is equal to 100k, would be manageable.

The morning started early 5am to be exact. A healthy breakfast of porridge and bananas was washed down with an isotonic fluid drink and positive thoughts. I had, following advice, purchased 2 brand new road tyres the previous day. These new tyres were to replace my current ‘tractor tyres’ and allow me to glide over the road surface instead of chewing it up, that’s the sales patter given to me by the cycle shop owner.
My two cycling companions fully kitted out with colour coordinated outfits, aerospace technology cycles had spent the previous evening resting, re-hydrating and filling up on carbs.

Yours truly was, sporting a dishevelled old cagoule, a borrowed pair of padded cycling shorts, borrowed cycling socks (apparently they have padding in them???) borrowed fingerless cycling gloves, these made me feel like Fagen and it was all I could to do to refrain from bursting into a very poor rendition of “You’ve got to pick a pocket or two. And with that the double-decker bus transporting us to the Old Trafford starting line pulled out of the car park. Like the riders the bikes were of all different colours, conditions. It was obvious to spot those who would be home, feet up and enjoying a Sunday morning bacon buttie, before some of us reached Wigan. Alternatively, there was one participant who was dressed as a Clown riding a small childs bike and is still out there somewhere yet to complete the course.

It was 7.30am when I turned my back on Salford Quays and headed towards the salty air and seaside thrills of Blackpool. I had surpassed my previous personnel best distance of 30 miles and by 11am I was refuelling with Gatorade at Preston Docks after completing the first 40 miles. Despite a slight twinge in my right thigh I was feeling fairly good and trying to envisage the remainder of the route, we had been given a map but mine was performing cartwheels in Wigan somewhere. It was about this time that things began to go slightly of course.

The route to Blackpool was not the one I had convinced myself would be taken, instead a tour of Salwick, Lea, Barton and other places I never knew existed totally threw me and my concentration. This route culminated with a short, steep, sadistic hill in Kirkham that resulted in an elderly gentleman overtaking me in his “Super Scooter” and fellow cyclist bemoaning “This isn’t Cricket” My internal sat nav re-programmed the route was convinced of a right turn at the next lights. The signpost instructed us to carry on straight ahead and into to the welcoming arms of a head wind.

This is where it nearly ended, Freckelton. By now my thigh was burning, my arse was sore and butting my head against a blustering head wind was beginning to demoralise me. I had geared down a few miles beforehand and whilst my wheels were still going round I wasn’t really making much progress. My mood was not enhanced by the constant passing breeze of other cyclists over my right shoulder. At one set of lights a cyclist asked the steward how much further “8 miles” she replied, it was not an encouraging figure.

Lytham, all along the coast road, again, with my minds eye I was planning the route to the finishing line. Again I was to be disappointed. Maybe it was the head wind but I never realised Lytham was so bloody long. Fairhaven Lake came and went as tiny grains of sand pricked my salt stained skin like tiny arrows being fired from archers hid amongst the sand dunes. One unlucky riders chain decided to give up the ghost 5 miles from the finish line. He was last seen launching the bike into the Irish Sea.

The finish line was embellished with expectant relatives clapping and cheering, as riders scanned the crowds for loved ones and the smell of fried onions filled the air. And that was that by 1.30pm I had completed the course, devouring my way through a greasy Blackpool burger and salivating at the thought of a cold beer. Had it been worth it? Yes. Would I do it again….. the decision is currently being debated by a jury re-hydrating with cold beer.