Wet with sweat and greased in a sun-cream, “summer-weed-pollen foundation”, my skin felt irritable on my left forearm and shin. I was scratched-to-the-max by rogue blackberries.
I gulped on air, inhaling the ammonium stench of stale pigeon faeces, rotting fish corpses and a subtle whiff of factory yeast, possibly a bakery. My body was saddled on top of a jackhammer with rusting wheels and balding tyres. Hands gripped rubber handlebars with white-knuckle force. It was mind over matter as I tried to ignore the pins and needles in my wrists and fingers due to the spine-shattering ride from the old tow path that was long since neglected. At barely 15 miles into this semi-spontaneous journey, and on an unusually hot July morning in the North West of England, my thoughts came to perhaps a predetermined conclusion that cycling the entire length of the Leeds and Liverpool Canal is, for sure, not for the faint of heart, nor the faint of hemorrhoid.
The Leeds and Liverpool Canal is the longest canal in Britain. It stretches precisely 127 and a quarter miles. From opposite the central station at Leeds, it meanders through the countryside connecting old industrial towns in Yorkshire and westward through Lancashire, resembling that of a poorly performing index fund’s annual price chart, and finishes at the Stanley Dock, just north of Liverpool city centre. In more recent years, however, it has been extended to meet with the historic and more centralised UNESCO-listed Albert Dock. Built over 200 years ago, this canal system connected the Irish Sea and North Sea overland and enabled transportation of industrial stocks such as coal and limestone as well as wheat and timber between the Mersey River in the west and the Aire River in the east. The infrastructure survived two world wars and was also involved in Churchill’s invasion plan. Pillboxes are dotted about the route to this day. The canal competed with rail freight since its inception for many a year but now, in the 21st century, the Leeds and Liverpool connection has been decommissioned as an industrial water passage and evolved to become a water route for the purposes of leisure.
After suffering prolonged months of locked-downs in 2020 and 2021 due to the Covid-19 pandemic and breaking it off with my vocation, I found myself, more or less, unemployed with ample time to dedicate to leisure activities. Covid lockdown fallout can come to us all in the form of mental health struggles. Acutely aware of this potential catastrophe, from the beginning of the shenanigans, politically known as measures, or road maps, I knew I had to get out of the house and go on some kind of mini-adventure, or some sort of mission, if you will.
Summer had finally arrived in England. I was fit, free, and healthy, to a point. The idea of cycling the canal route eastward from Liverpool to Leeds seemed attractive. A possible quick-fire adventure that I was certain I could achieve. And I was fairly sure I could conquer the journey of 130-odd miles from home to Leeds centre hostel in just two days too. The main issue, I didn’t own a bike.
When I set my mind to achieving a goal, obstacles basically are there to be worked around, not used as excuses to lay idle and not bother. A neighbour of mine, Lenka, had a spare bike as she’d recently upgraded. She kindly agreed to lend it for a few days. Her spare was old, could have done with a well-needed greasing and general service. And it was also, a girl-bike. Regardless, I performed a quick test ride the weekend before my journey was due to commence and was pleased to find when I pushed on the pedals the bike moved forward. Lenka is about my height which meant the frame was fitting and from previous journeys on borrowed bikes, riding on a simple machine that is ill-fitting turns very uncomfortable, very quickly. I was content that this well-worn, white Carrera girl-bike would be adequate. Next, I acquired a helmet from a housemate, two locks from two different friends, some bike tools, and a puncture repair kit, if God forbid my journey went pear-shaped.
It was a warm Tuesday evening before I was due for a 6 am start the following dawn. Super-pumped, I collected my girl-bike from Lenka’s place. On riding the half-mile home I realised there was something dodgy about her rear brakes. I like to think I am a reasonably proficient-braker. I’m competent at applying the right amount of squeeze and rarely lock the wheels, unless I’m attempting to show off and impress someone with silly show-off stunts. Cycling through the Mystery, which is the name of the park that separates Lenka and me as neighbours, every time I squeezed the left brake handle I felt the rear catch, catch, catch on each rotation then completely lock up. The tyre would skid, ripping more rubber off what was already a tread-lacking tyre. Far from ideal, I thought.
I tinkered till dusk in my yard but I couldn’t fix the problem with the brake. To this day, my maintenance skills on bikes leave much to be desired.
That night was hot. I barely slept for three hours. I rolled around in bed, my mind on whether I’d have to call off the mission and lose my deposits on two hotels and a return train journey from Leeds to a value of over £100, which I still think is a lot of money. But would I be safe riding a bike I now had little confidence in? And could I physically ride 130 miles in two days? What if I actually get a puncture and can’t fix it? How pathetic would that be...
The alarm buzzed - but I was already up.
I was going for it!
(I hosted an old mate from Australia on my Nostalgic Vagabond travel podcast in September of 2020. During our conversation, he mentioned that one of the main things he took away from his time on the beat was just learning to say, “Yes.” Check it out here if you like:- https://podcasts.apple.com/gb/podcast/southern-to-northern-hemisphere-dive-in-have-no-fear/id1526902675?i=1000492746192)
I packed my bag full of mostly fluids, power bars, bananas and some mandatory trail mix. I had a spare change of clothes, an unnecessary rain jacket, loads of suncream, toiletries, chargers, my notepad and the now ubiquitous hand sanitiser (travel-size). It was a tad heavy on my back but I knew I’d be lightening the load throughout the day’s fuel consumption. I could have taken less but I also could have taken more. I chose to stink rather than have more freshly-laundered clothing items. That’s true-traveller style, as long as you’re not planning on making any special friends on the road, cause you won’t when you smell like bum.
The morning was spectacular, for the UK. The sky was bright and an unblemished-blue. The warmth of the sun killed off any chill from the previous night. There was an anticipation for a cracker-of-a-day. I felt free. I was unburdened. In fact, I was bloody-well invincible, wearing my new Primani Matrix-style shades. That was until I took the descent down Parliament Street toward the central docks of Liverpool and remembered I only had front brakes to slow my momentum. Luckily, I figured if I feathered my rear brakes and was clever with squeezing the fronts I could slow without locking the rears as well as not go arse-over-tit into a parked white-van-man, sitting stationary and stinking-up the world with his diesel, at the traffic lights. So far, so good at navigating downward terrain. Hills weren’t going to be a friend on this journey which is why I was thankful to be taking the mostly flat, water route to Leeds rather than traversing the Pennines which no doubt would have ended in some kind of trauma.
The Royal Albert Dock always takes you back to when Liverpool was proper Liverpool. Once upon a time, the city was of utmost importance to the entire British Empire. As one of the main port cities, it collaborated with London to move stocks and people around the world for both admirable and nefarious reasons. This morning its red-brick structures welcomed me with a proud Scouse working-class gesture. And it was only me. Six-thirty in the morning is too early for tourists who would typically crowd the attractions later in the day. I decided to park by the Beatles statue near the ferry terminal building and set up my biking apps to track the day’s progress.
I could hear acapella tunes being carried in the still, humid air. A group of about a dozen students was blasting Beatles tracks behind the Museum of Liverpool, a quirky building just north of Albert Dock. I was not sure if they had risen to welcome the morning on the Mersey or still were yet to retire from the boozy night before in the local bars. Either way, they seemed very happy indeed. And it was pretty cool to be serenaded and get properly psyched for the 80 miles I was going to have to smash if I was to make it to Burnley by nightfall.
I set up Komoot and Strava and was off. I loosely followed the newer extension part of the canal, north, weaving amongst strange casino and hotel resort-type buildings as well as old-school brick warehouses, high perimeter walls and decrepit dock facilities. It’s a fascinating combination of the old and the new and occasionally, the new that is trying desperately to resemble the old, but they ain’t foolin’ me. In no time at all, I reached Stanley Dock. There is a hotel called Titanic of which I have always thought was in a weird location. They often film Hollywood movie scenes around that area, so maybe I’m wrong.
I crossed a scatty road and was met with a canal four-lock system known, according to the sign, as the Stanley Flight. I gathered this was the start or the end, if you like, of the original canal system. And this little metal sign affirmed my prediction. As the original canal did not actually connect to the docks, all the cargo had to be loaded onto horse and cart and carried the remainder of the journey into town, the length of which I’d just cycled from the Fab Four by the pier head buildings. Sounds like a mega ball-ache to me, but for the dockers work was work, money was money, food was food. Sometimes I have to remember to be grateful for how easy my life really is, and for most of us in the present day.
I applied an initial application of suncream next to a huge, long and narrow brick warehouse. This is the famous tobacco warehouse. At one time in history, it was the largest brick building in the world. When I first arrived in Liverpool in 2015 I remembered ambling around these somewhat infamous north docks. This particular building reeked of tobacco. I could smell it standing 100 yards away across the road. But it didn’t anymore. There seemed to be some construction firm converting the entire place into flats. Cigarette-stink flats would not be desirable I would think. Especially for stupid money, which I have no doubt these tiny flats will cost to buy when they’re done. Eventually. That’s assuming the firm doesn’t go bust before they are completed, which is a trend on many sites these days.
Before I left on this journey I was made acutely aware by friends who had explored the canal that the Liverpool end is not as nice as the Leeds end. Content with that, I knew arriving into Leeds would make more of a climax rather than an anti-climax for my mission. My informants were not lying. The track was rough. Old bitumen paths had been fractured by nearby trees. Root hazards, rocky hazards, trail lines became narrow, only inches from the water of which I had no desire to enter, no matter how hot the day became. At times the tow path resembled a level-2 hiking track rather than a “path”. It was not a joy ride and at times I needed to focus hard-core on what I was doing. And meditate to not think about how much a pounding my arse was taking...
At a jovial time of half-past seven on a Wednesday morning, the route was surprisingly crowded. Runners, dog walkers, other cyclists, the path was a buzz of early fitness enthusiasts. Which was more than I could say for the water users. Moored up, sleepy narrowboats sat silent. Their owners, asleep too or some enjoying the morning rays with a fag or a pipe, or a pint. I took in my environment. I wasn’t surprised, more perturbed at how much rubbish there was, everywhere. In the water there was plastic, plastic and more fucking plastic. On the towpath at times, rusted shopping trolleys, old bits of bike frame, an entire passenger side door leaning under a bridge. I just hoped I’d be seeing no body parts left drying off on the side of the canal.
Waterfowl were not bothered so much about the litter it seemed, content to swim in amongst it with their young families. Ducks, swans, geese, some solo herons playing chicken with my bike... I always won.
Once passed Aintree the floating plastic bottles, faded tin cans and probably used condoms were replaced with yellow flowers, long reeds and water lilies. It was beautiful. The canal really started to open up, as did the countryside, as did my bladder. I was busting for a pee...
I ducked under old stone bridges with little black and white numbers nailed above cobbled paths, barely a couple of feet wide. On either side was a wall or a fall, into the water of which the depth and concentrations of undesirables were suspect. I successfully passed badge number 9, then number 10. For a moment I thought they were mile markers, just for a moment though, as I eventually and stupidly realised there were numbered bridges all the way from one end of the canal to the other. I suppose it made sense for both navigation and maintenance purposes. I pondered, if the bridge numbers start at Liverpool and go up in number, en route to Leeds, then why is the canal called the Leeds and Liverpool Canal and not vice-versa. There were in fact mile markers. White stone tablets at knee height set a couple of metres off the water’s edge but at least to that point on my journey I’d not noticed any of them. Either they were in amongst overgrown vegetation, had not seen a mower in recent months or perhaps were stolen or even thrown in the canal like pretty much everything else. I was at the Liverpool end after all.
Bridge 11 came up. There was space on the dry side of the path. I took my chance. Docked the bike, eyed and found my spot. But before I could properly get ready-- I peed on myself. Shit!
Back on it, and thankful that I’d packed the hand sanitizer, the routine continued. Constantly ducking low-hanging foliage and leaning under stone bridges, number 15, 16, 17 and so on, I dodged more potholes and others. Pedestrians, kind of, have the right-of-way here. Cyclists are allowed to share the path. Bikes are tolerated, no worries, if courteous. The etiquette for cyclists is to make full use of your bell. The etiquette is as such, if you are on a bike and approaching someone walking with their back to you, ring the bell a couple of times and they simply, and usually hop out of the way and allow you a safe passage. For the most part I found this to be the case. Times I found it to not work where on approaching elderly gents profanely deaf to high-pitch tones and millennial women blasting deafening tunes through their AirPods, likely Justin Bieber. Or am I too judgemental? On these occasions, after multiple chimes, there was no moving aside so I scooched around them and scared them no doubt. There were no casualties to the canal to be clear. If they were upset, I didn’t feel too bad, I did my due diligence. Especially with no rear brakes...
And then a pigeon shat on me. Perhaps that’s karma, I don’t know.
The etiquette with oncoming traffic, I figured it out as I went. Obviously with oncoming traffic you can see who or what is approaching, usually. Again, for the most part, simple courtesies took place, choosing a side and sticking to it. On blind corners though, I was nervous. With no confidence in my braking ability I made sure to ring out multiple times in the hope of warning speeding on comers of my possibly clumsy presence. The towpath is really only wide enough for one-way traffic under bridges too, except on newer build bridges which had numbers as well as A and sometimes B added. (Built after the canal was already completed and numbered.) Under one particular bridge, a speeding mountain biker scared me off and I was forced to dodge left. I lost balance and braced myself with my palm on the brick of the tunnel wall as he hooned by. Stationary, I noticed the wall was covered in brown smears of human turd. This time thankfully my hand managed to avoid being soiled. I guess I still held some karma credit.
The height of the day pushed temperatures to thirty degrees and beyond. The humidity, maximum. I tried to maintain a consistent but leisurely speed along a dirt path. Thick greenery blocked out the sun, apart from the gap over the canal. I was grateful for the bit of shade on the path. As I glanced into the steaming murky-brown water I thought, I could be along the Amazon right now. And that would give me another strong reason to stay out of the water. I heard the putt-putt drumming of an engine. It was rhythmic, like that of a military marching band. Then round the bend, the royalty of the waterway presented itself. A long and freshly painted narrowboat chugged through the water. The reeds bowed and the water lilies curtseyed in its wake. The captain tipped his hat. A greeting, a salute. It was routine...
I made it to Wigan Pier at 11 am. Once a busy working area when the canal would shift goods along the canal between mills, factories and docks. Coal was common. Fuelling the industrial empire it was sent along the water from the mines to the factories. There were a few information posters and sculptures about the history of the area. It seemed the old buildings were being turned into trendy hipster establishments. I suppose that’s better than letting them decay. I decided to find somewhere to rest and take a lunch break which was more of a refueling stop, smashing protein bars, shakes, Lucozade and gobbling some nuts. More importantly, I needed to rest my arse. It was well sore. Already…
Not long after my rest on a shady Wigan lock at the edge of town, I reached roughly the 50-mile point. More than halfway along in the day’s mileage, I was feeling fit and fine. My mind wandered and my body seemed to be in autopilot mode. Legs rotating with a steady rhythm. Then I found myself reaching a confusing dead-end. The canal all but disappeared into a shrubbery marsh. The towpath seemed to veer to the left, become a car park and then a country lane. “Shit,” I thought. “How did this happen?”
On a broken bench in the shade sat a greying man. He was staring into a green-out of foliage. His name was Boon. He wasn’t fishing nor reading nor drinking ale of which I’d witnessed plenty up to that point. “Does the canal go up that way, mate?” Annoyed that I’d become a tad lost.
“No. You need to join it on the road. Be careful on the road. It’s a dangerous road.” Bless him, Boon seemed very concerned for my safety on what I assumed to be a quiet Lancastrian single-laned B-road. He gave me a few more directions without prompting, “Follow the road, left and then right and you’ll discover the canal.” He reminded me again and again about taking care. It was a “dangerous road” after all. I was on a deadline so couldn’t chat, although Boon seemed very amicable if not a little patronising.
Thanks to Boon’s instructions in no time at all I was back on the canal route. White stone mile markers were hitting mid-fifties, and beyond. At another water and suncream stop (also fast becoming arse breaks) I took a glance at my apps and found I was near Chorley. Chorley is the town where I was schooled in how to drink. Back in 2010, when I first Couch Surfed my way through the UK, my new mates Mike and Craig took me to the Prince of Wales brown-boozer to watch a fight. I’d never been much into boxing but was willing to embrace the experience. It was a common thing to enjoy in a northern, and I guess a working-class experience. And the experience often goes with ale I discovered. From memory, I think I worked through six pints in just over two hours that night. Always a third of a glass behind when it was time for the next round, I had to nail the amber lubricant while Mike or Craig were buying another three pints or take my drink to the bar with me when it was my turn-- No. They didn’t allow me to do that. Mike and Craig wanted to make sure I wasn’t cheating and leaving my remaining third on the bar, unfinished. The adjudicators would want to make sure this Aussie bogan was not cheating. To be honest, even now, they still wouldn’t trust me-- They’d just troll me to death. The boxing was an anticlimax that evening. However, my guts were not, the next morning. And I’ve never been back to Chorley.
The canal skirted me around places that brought back nostalgia from those past Couch Surfing days. Towns like Ormskirk, Burscough, Wigan. I cruised east of the new estate Buskshaw adjoining Leyland, a town of which I am very fond and know pretty much every establishment of note and some of the notable characters, then Blackburn next. Market towns, mill towns, hubs of high-end manufacturing, all these towns would have been prominent in powering Britain’s global dominance and developed the backbone of the industrial revolution. Now, they’re just towns. Maybe they’ve been given a college to provide millennials with a distraction from video games or instagram porn. That’s about it though. You can still drink...
In planning this journey, I considered Blackburn as my stopping-off point. It’s pretty much the halfway point. However, I figured if I could cycle more miles on day one, if I was feeling tired and sore, having less riding to do on day two would provide the necessary psychological boost to carry on, work through fatigue and try to ignore a ripped and chaffed, and super tender arse. As I passed by the Rovers Stadium and some old factory infrastructures I convinced myself that I’d made the right call. I was knackered. And I hoped I could keep going another 20 miles or so...
Mid-afternoon, notoriously the hottest time of the day, and the shade disappeared. The sun-scorched down on my pasty white frame. Temperatures were well into the thirties. The only wind was that of which I was creating under my own pedal power. All my energies in optimism were coming from knowing that I had been through worse cycling weather than this growing up in Australia. But it had been so long since those times. I wondered, what if now I’d become a pathetic pom?
Two teenage boys stood at the water’s edge. Their heads bowed at the ground. They could have been at a memorial service. Sombre, I slowed and manoeuvred around them but they called out to me a few yards onward. Clever not to make a wally of myself, I slowed and I turned back to see them studying a little grey hedgehog. “Is it dead?” I was curious. They’d actually rescued the poor thing with a stick.
“It was drowning”, they informed me. And as I took a closer look I could see it moving. Seemed it was breathing but it looked weak. Must have had a traumatic time in the canal.
“Put it in the shade and away from the path. Might give it a better chance to recover.” Anyways, I said a final well done to the lads. They’d done a noble thing to help it not to drown.
So I continued to bump and trump along the path. The massive bowl of jet fuel pasta from last night was on full afterburner now. I rang my bell and an old geezer and his collie hopped off the path and onto the grass in unison. It was like a music video. Ace!
Sixty-five miles and then beyond. I was getting closer and closer to the goal for the day. The canal route shifted from a rural vibe back into an urban setting. Basically, I was hitting Burnley districts. Awesome, I thought. Soon the day’s ride would be conquered. Following the tow path, I was led behind old stone houses in quiet neighbourhoods. I got a whiff of KFC and hunger overwhelmed me. I realised I hadn’t eaten real food all day. I could have murdered a family-sized bucket of chicken. But there was no time to go looking.
“Hey! Can you get our ball?”
I was lost in salivating thoughts of heavenly, greasy secret-spiced fried chicken when some backyard boys called out from the opposite bank. About half a dozen of them were kicking footballs around outside. (Much better than virtual footballs on a PS-triple, inside.) They wanted their stray back. So, obliging, I slowed. They pointed me to where it was. Of course, it was behind me.
“Kick it over!”
I looked at what I was tasked with. The canal was wide. It’s the widest one at times. I’d have to boot their ball over the water, up a good 10 metres onto the higher bank and land it inside their gated yard. I played soccer for a good few years when I was a boy. But that was many moons ago. I’m basically wrinkly-old now in footballing terms. A lack of practice provided limited confidence. And I was starving, dehydrated and heavily fatigued. “Do you trust me to kick it that far?” I yelled out to the boys, all six poised like excitable baboons clutching to the metal fence rails. They nodded. No fear. All cheer. Then I just went for it. Kicked off my right boot the football blasted high into the air, soared over the wide canal, and veered to the right. For a moment it was touch and go but the ball bounced off their three-story new-build roof and landed directly in their yard. Bulls-eye! I was chuffed with myself. Gave them a thumbs up and gingerly resaddled my girl-bike. As I was pulling away again, amongst boyish jeers, I heard a grateful one bellow, “We trusted you...”
A little farther along, I came to a tunnel entrance, with no path…
Burrowing under the M65 motorway, the Gannow Tunnel is located due west of the centre of Burnley. I was almost at my goal. I just needed to weave through town and head a little further north and I could be rewarded with a shower, hopefully some real food and a place to rest my properly battered bum. Firstly, get through this tunnel. But there was no path inside.
In modern times, narrowboats propel themselves under power. However, back in the day, canal boats were hauled through the water by horses and men. The horses went overland. In the tunnels, men had to walk the boats through the tunnel. On either side, they’d push off the inner stone walls and propel the vessel forward until they reached the light at the other end and could be reconnected to their horses with ropes. I was forced to veer away from the water, up and over and out of sight with the canal, like the horses once did. But unlike the horses back then, I found myself in the middle of what I like to think of as an insane pedestrian spaghetti junction in the middle of a routing round-a-bout and a major northern motorway.
The reverberation of countless motor vehicle engines bouncing off tons of concrete infrastructure was an urban sound that I hadn’t missed. I became disoriented. Komoot was not my friend, nor Strava, nor Google. I made three wrong turns in this maze of pathways and pedestrian underpasses. I felt like a massive wally. Stupid. I was lost. I couldn’t figure it out. I hopped off my girl-bike and walked. Lame. My arse was on fire. My throat was parched. Muscles drained of glucose. My brain too. I couldn’t think straight. I was properly over it. I leaned the Carrera up against some concrete and took a deep, calming breath. With deep focus, and then a bit more meditative focus, I discovered I’d missed a turn that was more of a kink rather than a turn. Such a simple error had turned stressful. Eventually, I found my route again. I had to push on toward the goal.
In a book titled ‘The Travel Writer’s Way’ by Jonathan Lorie (buy it on Amazon, like every-bloody-thing :- https://www.amazon.co.uk/Travel-Writers-Way-travels-stories/dp/1784776041/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=the+travel+writers+way&qid=1634655356&qsid=262-9823003-4034117&sr=8-1&sres=1784776041%2C1786578662%2C0099282593%2C0993355811%2C1460761081%2C0008478295%2C1529068177%2C1072991683%2CB07PK581MH%2C1909770671%2C1716450950%2C1527239268%2CB08Q5QRKVT%2C1480208299%2C0500519501%2CB07H3VFNLX&srpt=ABIS_BOOK) he talks about the journey of the traveller. He postulates about the traveller’s journey not necessarily being that of a purely physical journey, which of course, it is, but the arguably more profound and powerful and perhaps life-changing inward journey of the individual. What personal revelations can that individual traveller uncover going their own way?
The Leeds and Liverpool canal crosses over the M65. It’s a bridge, an aqueduct, if you will, though not a pretty one. Evening rush hour traffic passed beneath me. The narrow waterway to my right. I came across what appeared to be a simple but loving memorial to a man. A son. A brother. A friend. A man, who was no longer around. I paused. Dismounted. I felt overcome and obliged to pay respects. The man was born in 1984, the same year as me. I assumed suicide from my vantage. Sad, but something that wasn't a new notion to me, unfortunately. This was a simple tribute of beautiful portraits of a once troubled man and many kind messages written from those left behind and posted to a bridge over an anonymous stretch of British motorway. He only made it to 2020. He only hit thirty-six. That’s it. Was he a victim of Covid-19 fallout? Was he another man, who couldn’t keep on top of his mental health and surrendered himself to another fate? Could he have been helped? Could he have been me? Depression is horrendous. I felt affirmed in my decision to take action and get out of the house and go on this summertime mission.
I carried on...
It took much longer than I expected to navigate in and out of the Burnley built-up area. I had to pitstop at Tesco for a meal deal and took another rest in Thompson Park, to consume that chicken salad sandwich with screaming kids and all. I couldn’t care less. Just fifteen minutes of rest felt incredible. Almost lost again trying to follow a stream out of the park rather than rejoining the canal, I cursed myself for morphing into a tired-bloody idiot. It was well past 6 pm and after more than 12 hours on the road, I finally made it to my lodging for the night.
The Oaks Hotel is a Best Western hotel and resort. It’s a lovely stone building set on lush green grounds, kind of in the middle of nowhere. A double room set me back about £60. The place was dead. Mid-week and still post-apocalyptic probably the cause. The receptionist was adorable and sorted bike storage for me. I took a shower. It was heaven.
Inside I was taken back to another period. Dark hardwood furnishings. Stained glass windows. A rabbit warren of long, narrow corridors. My room was the furthest away, right at the back, like always. Rewards of a pint of Guinness and soup of the day were in order. In the end, I wasn’t actually that hungry. However, I did enjoy my meal, sat alone in the bar listening to a couple of haphazard bar girls break wine glasses and talk about their summer sunburn lamentations.
“My freckles came out last year...”
“Putting m’jeans on, it well ‘urt. Put a bo’l of factor-50 on, and I still get burnt.”
“Ginger!”
It was game over for me. I went to bed early…
At 7:30 am my phone alarm called reveille. What a lavish sleep in. Surprisingly my leg muscles felt more or less OK. My back and shoulders were a little stiff, due to the backpack. Couldn’t say something similar for my arse. I bent over, checked my backside reflection in the wardrobe mirror. (A Hugh Grant French train manoeuvre but thankfully no monsieur or worse a madamoiselle burst through my room door to embarrass me, unlike poor Hugh on the TGV.) A blister had formed about the size of a small plastic strip on my right butt cheek, or upper thigh if you prefer to be more PG+13. It was about half an inch wide and a couple of inches long. Ripped-red-raw. Incredibly painful.
I still had about 50 miles to cycle.
Breakfast was included in the room booking. I’d made sure of that. Full English, the order of the day. In my opinion it was a semi-full English. Missing key items of what constitutes the “full” in an English morning meal. It was a sad display on both the quantity and variety of food stuffs on the dinner plate. On eating, I reflected that it was probably for the best. Too much grease could hamper the ride to Leeds. A quick stretch, a farewell to the same receptionist who had checked me in. Double-shifter I suppose. Still charming as ever. Then I was on my way again.
The canal tow path heading north became a lusciously smooth bitumen surface. Black heaven. A wonderful relief for my backside, but it didn’t last long. After about a mile the path returned to the tree-worn and bouncy, arse-chafing horrendous experience I had endured for hours the day before. I saw two rats. One dead. One alive. How encouraging. Feeling good in my body but knowing that I would be feeling the opposite for sure at times during the day, I cranked the Carrera into high gear and pushed. Making good time when I could, seemed an intelligent choice.
BANG! The top cog failed. I lost drive momentarily. Never ceasing to pedal, I found the gear again after fiddling with the levers. Nervous, I told myself to stay away from the two highest gear ratios in case something like that or worse was to happen. I might lose the drive permanently. No go on the drive and no go on the brakes would send my girl-bike redundant and I’d be on foot with no chance of completing the 50-something miles to my goal.
Almost half distance from Burnley to Skipton I came to another tunnel. The Fowlridge Tunnel. Remembering the shenanigans of navigating between tunnel entry and exit points from yesterday I stopped and consulted my digital map. It seemed a longer overland expedition than before, on the other side of Burnley. I tried to memorise the left and right turns at country lane T-intersections. To be honest, I was not feeling it. I sighed and tried to psych-up. I glanced to my left at the canal and the tunnel opening. A nice-looking pleasure boat was idle, waiting on the moorside for the red light to turn green. On top of the tunnel, on a kind of grassy knoll sat an older bloke on a wooden bench, just chilling. Sipping from a water bottle, his bike leaning on the stonework over the entrance to the tunnel. I figured I’ll take a hydration stop too.
“Alright?” I wheeled my dusty, white vehicle and propped it next to his much sleeker, more masculine mountain-biking machine. “May I join you?”
“Sure.” he gestured to the side of the bench. “Nice day for it…”
A boat exited the tunnel and putt-putted away from us towards Burnley, where I had travelled. Finally, the patient captain was able to take his turn when the green light signalled. His boat disappeared into a dark mouth of stone.
“How’s your arse?”
“Not great.” I reflected. To be honest, it was fucked. But I didn't reveal that truth.
“I usually only ride up to the next section and turn back home toward Burnley. Not as young as you. Plus I don’t think my arse would take the miles you’ve done.” We had much more in common than I could have anticipated, even our identities. Well almost. However, this fella was covered in tattoos. I have zero. He pulled back his bike shorts (not having bike shorts on this journey was by far my biggest mistake) and showed me a little smiley-face tattoo above his knee. Ironic, I explained to him, when I was a teenager I thought about getting a silly tattoo like that on my left shoulder blade. We connected on many things. Family, manhood, Covid-philosophy, global politics, serendipity, and how important it is to get out into the sunshine and enjoy our life. Fight depression or depressive tendencies in life. We chatted for well over half an hour. “I better get going as it's still a ways to go,” I mused.
“I can take you over to the other side if you like. I’ll ride with you to the next section. It’s only a few miles.”
Yes. That’s it, I thought. This is what travel is all about. The serendipitous situations, the other travellers, the connections. If I hadn’t had made the decision to chat with this bloke on a bench, this offer to navigate me over the terrain would not have occurred. I may have lost my way, again. “Awesome. I’ll follow you. No worries.”
We rode together as promised and when we came to a canal gate he turned back. Meeting that legend was one of the highlights of the trip. It reminded me of how life, at its core, is about human interaction. We should never lose this necessity. And I’m sorry, virtual communication doesn’t cut it.
My mind was still buzzing heading into the final hour before midday. The sun was high. I took another sun cream stop. I felt I hadn’t cycled very far at all. I needed to pick up the pace.
The close air was still. Cows were protesting their distaste for the heat as well as me. I traded places a couple of times with a jaunty cycling couple. They were cute. We took turns opening and closing country farm gates and exchanging head-nods. Around East Marten the tow path turned into something that resembled anything but a path and barely a trail. Walking on this jagged terrain would result in a rolled ankle almost every time. Cycling was absolutely brutal. For miles I bounced and bopped at a snail’s pace. At times I thought these worn tyres would pop. At times I thought I might lose balance and fall into the dark water. At times I wanted to get off and walk the bike. With every upward jolt, I yelped in pain. I wondered if my blistered arse was bleeding but I was too afraid to hop off and check, mostly fear for my own morale.
I needed supreme focus. It was mind over matter. After what seemed like an eternity in hell, the path formed to be a respectable one worthy of the name. Turned out to be a tease though, as a mile later the path disappeared and I endured another couple of miles of torture, what I can describe only as bush-bashing while bouncing on my bowels. Cycling through ankle-length grass coverings, navigating with water on my left and either fencing or small shrubs to my right. I couldn’t tell what I was cycling over. Only that it was bumpy, and it hurt. The pins and needles in my hands and fingers were back with a vengeance but there was no way I was relieving them from duty. Not even one at a time.
Bank Newton Locks beckoned me. I was rid of that hell-ride and arrived at some downhill. My legs needed a rest. I placed a left cheek on the saddle and rode the gravel on the negative incline. As speed increased, I became more and more terrified. I had no brakes. I couldn’t slow. I rang the bell to warn any blind on comers. My balding tyres struggled to grip and turning at any minor angle could have likely sent the front tyre horizontal, as well as myself, in a Superman pose, but less elegant. The gravel road flattened out. It all was an anticlimax. No one was around. Not even Superman.
Nearing Skipton, I was rewarded with a bit of track that was flat, soft gravel, and well maintained. Wild flowers surrounded me. Hip-high. Shoulder-high. I was brushed by buzzing bees. They must have been euphoric with the amount of honey-making goodness around. Free, optimistic, enjoying the sunshine. Opening up the gears, I blasted “[to Palm Springs instantly feeling good about being me.]” as Nick Cage remarks in that car lover’s film from the turn of the century, ‘Gone in 60 Seconds’. I’d say I hit my top speed across the entire journey over those few miles. It was hot as hell but I was hungry and keen to make the lunch stop. My Palm Springs was Skipton.
I didn’t spot any unicorns.
Skipton was a pleasant surprise. For some reason I thought it would be properly bogan like Swindon, in the south of England. The canal led me right into the town centre which had not been the case for most of the journey. Many brightly coloured narrowboats were moored up against stone-paved pedestrian paths. They sparkled adjacent to canal-side coffee shops and pubs. The midday sun was beating down. Everyone seemed to be in one of those British summer moods where they feel blessed to catch one of the six days of summer every year. (What that means is a day where the sun is not obstructed by grey smears of northern hemisphere stratus or cumulus.) I rode over a couple of bridges and dismounted out of respect for the level of foot traffic, safety but mostly for my poor bum. I found a little green space in the shade and fueled up not far from the main market streets. I had to stand up to eat, but I didn’t care. The town was quaint but busy. It was lunch hour after all. Not satisfied with my nuts and protein bars, I caught immense nostalgia when I saw a high school student sitting on a bench with his mate noshing on a sausage roll from Greggs. Yes! I’m having-me-one of those I said to myself. So I did. It was ace!
After Skipton I broke into the triple digits on the white stone mile markers. The routine had become automatic. It’s amazing how quickly the body can adjust to a physical routine. I spotted mile 101. “Don’t stop till you get to 110” I chanted to myself. In less than an hour, I smashed it. For experienced riders that pace is laughable. On a borrowed bike with no brakes, and with a fire-dagger in my arse I think it’s pretty damn spectacular. New energy was powering me, or was it that Greggs sausage roll.
Then it was just over 16 miles to Leeds…
Heading southeast from Skipton on the last leg into Leeds I began my communion, cycling parallel, with the River Aire of which I would keep until I’d reached my trip’s end in Leeds centre. The canal actually feeds into the river there, or does the river feed the canal? I rode behind tiny villages made of pale stone and brick houses. Bradley, Kildwick, Silesden, all seemed worth a patrol but there was no time on this trip. I had momentum and was going to keep it. The aesthetic of the canal kept increasing. Good path. Pleasant nature. Meandering through town and country. The internet was right. The Leeds side of the canal is prettier than the Liverpool end. I was enjoying my surroundings.
There seemed to be frequent lock systems. At least more frequent than at other sections of the canal that I had noticed. To my benefit or detriment, depending on how steep the slope, they were all downhill. Like the downward slope on the map, I was heading back down to the finish. I took another suncream break and finished off the last of my food stuffs. This one was particularly steep and had at least 6 gates. It was busy too. There were a couple of canal boats sharing one gate and one at the top and another at the bottom waiting their turn. You don’t want to ever be in a rush on the canal. You’d be better off walking. I spotted a couple of guys in blue shirts with white print and tiny red vests that were more like necklaces. The red pads on their breasts were life jackets. These waterways workers were busy assisting leisure boaters to navigate up and down the system. It seemed some of the boaters were clueless on what to do and far from their fittest. I watched one of the workers speedily rotate a lever to demonstrate the technique to a woman who may as well have been wearing pyjamas. She was useless at rotating. Lucky those guys were there or the waiting boats would be waiting all day, and all night too I’d imagine.
I headed well into the 100-teens mile markers. The countdown was really on now. The path deteriorated a little and every bump became excruciating. My arse was going to explode. It felt like a prostitute’s after a weekend of overtime. I had to focus on the end. Just get there. Just a little farther…
Another downhill lock system revealed itself. This one had an actual paved road that ran adjacent. Awesome except for the fact it had speed bumps. Brilliant. I snuck around on the dirt tyre tracks that appeared at most speed bumps, thanks to my cycling colleagues.
POP!
“Shit!” A tyre blowout. “No…”
I pulled over and checked. The tyres were still inflated. They seemed to have the same amount of pressure by thumb check. I must have travelled awkwardly over a rock or something. But that sound was enough to scare me, even this close. Then I passed mile 117. That meant I was ten miles out. “Come on.” I spurred myself on, to push.
It was past 3 pm. I had no more food left and my water supply was about to run dry. The path was reasonable so I opened up the gears again and pumped my tired legs. Just get to the next marker I thought. And when I made it, I was feeling good. Just smash it to the next one, I convinced myself to power on. I was in my own world. I hadn’t really noticed that I’d been riding for a while and not seen anybody else. This part of the canal was a little bit scatty. I think I went around the back of a landfill because it stank. Perhaps this was why no one was around on this little section. I took a long flowing left turn. The shade returned again and I came across three blokes with their bikes but stationary and staring at something on the opposite side of the canal.
“That thing’ll kill ya.” One of them mused.
“He’s a bad-boy”
I took a look across, on the upper bank. A large goat patrolled his hill. Enormous hipster beard. Horns at least a foot-long that would disembowel any intruder. The blokes were busy zooming in on their smartphones and snapping pics. I was glad the bad-boy billy goat was behind a fence and on the opposite side of the water. Proper random. I dipped my helmet, a departing nod and gingerly I was on my way.
Mile 121. Roughly 10km to go now, in metric, like most of the world use and all should use. I took what was to be my last stop. I finished my water and found a few stray peanuts in the bottom of my front pouch. What a bonus.
“It’s a hot one for you.” I turned around. An older man and his wife were walking by.
“Yeah, it’s a hot one for everyone today.”
“Where have you come?”
“Burnley” I exclaimed, “The day before I cycled from Liverpool. I’m trying to complete the canal in two days.” I laid out my plan in brief as he took a moment in the shade with me.
“What will you do when you arrive in Leeds?”
“Have a beer.” I proclaimed, licking my parched lips.
“What else will you do there?”
I didn’t hesitate too much, “Have another one.”
RyanAir flew at a low altitude. Its trusty undercarriage disappeared into its dark blue belly as it groaned in takeoff ascent. I knew I was close to the final destination if an aircraft I assumed was departing Leeds Bradford Airport was so loud and low and screaming over me on the canal. I hit mile 125. Then 126…
The final miles into Leeds were really satisfying. The path was very busy again. Foot traffic, other cyclists. School kids making a nuisance of themselves. I arrived at Leeds lock number 1 at half-past four. I guess they number the locks as well as the bridges. Lock number one is at the Leeds end. Perhaps that is why the longest canal is indeed called the Leeds and Liverpool and not vice-versa. On the other side of the lock was the River Aire but it snuck around behind some buildings and underneath the main station. I was in a place called Holbeck Village. It seemed to be a city worker’s mooch-zone. Basically all new-build, there was a Hilton Double-tree, some over-priced fo-exotic chain restaurants, umbrella pubs and a few new craft bars. Feeling more or less fine, apart from my arse I took a couple of photos, checked the time again and realised it was close enough to 5 pm.
Beer o’clock.
There’s a bizarre cylindrical building right by the canal. On the ground floor is a craft beer establishment called, Craft Asylum. I took a Salt beer called Huckaback NEIPA as my reward for cycling over 130 miles in two days and to hopefully numb my bum, at least a little bit. The bartender informed me that all the Salt beers in his gaff come from Saltaire which I had passed on my route earlier that day. It was only fitting. I enjoyed that ale immensely.
I walked my bike through town to my accommodation for the evening. Then I locked it to a skip and went searching for dinner. A burger. And of course, another beer…
It took a good week for my arse to not throb every time I sat down. I have a little mark. Memories from a post-Covid summer adventure. Not sure if the scar will ever fade. I don’t care. It was worth it. I was happy I made the decision to just say, “Yes!” I was proud of myself for getting out of the house and making something of an adventure and a journey out of nothing. Cycling the longest canal in England is a great challenge. An escape, a good way to get out of a rut. If not two days, it could easily be done over three. I'd recommend it. Try it. Don’t get bogged down in depression, Covid-fallout or not. However, my advice, maybe invest in some bike pants.
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