Prologue
I appear in lycra at the living room door.
Scott (9): Have you been for a ride?
Me: Yup.
Scott: Was it the big ride?
Me: No. Not yet. That’s next week when we go to Nana and
Grandad’s. Why did you think it was?
Scott: You’ve been going on about it for long enough.
Me: …
Out of the mouths of babes…
Inception
The idea for this trip came about in the summer of 2019. I
was back in Leeds visiting friends and we took a ride out along the
Leeds-Liverpool canal for an easy gravel ride and café stop. It was a sunny day
in August, there was a brisk but not unpleasant headwind and somewhere just
outside Silsden I turned to Col and suggested that riding the full length of
the canal would probably be a fun thing to do. He agreed and the idea was born.
The Plan
Fast forward two years, a global pandemic and Col dropping
out due to focusing on running so not being bike fit and I was in the final
stages of prepping for the “big ride” that I’d been “going about… for long
enough.”
The plan was to head up to my parents’ in Howden for the
first week of the school summer holidays, get my boys settled in with the
grandparents and then take the Wednesday and Thursday (July 28th and
29th) for my first ever bike tour. I’d ride on the road from Howden
to Liverpool; stay at a hotel that night (no camping for me thanks) and then, the
next day, ride with the prevailing wind for the entire 127 miles of the
Leeds-Liverpool canal.
Day one would be 176km on the road with 1640m of climbing
over the Pennines from East Yorkshire to Lancashire. Day two would be 219km
with 500m of elevation. So, not really taking it steady for my first go at this
bike touring stuff.
Still, I was confident that I had pretty much everything covered: the bike was in good working order; I was in good working order; I had all the kit I thought I’d need, and I felt comfortable with the route Komoot had planned for me. I just needed the unknown variables, like the weather, to come together for me and it would be a trip to remember.
Day One: Howden to Liverpool
Howden-Kippax (0-42km)
The weather forecast didn’t look too bad. Although Britain
had been battered by storms earlier in the month, the worst seemed to be behind
us and the forecasts for my two days of riding suggested it would be warm
(good) with showers (not terrible) and strong westerly winds on the ride home
(yippee, a back wind for 127 miles).
After a hearty breakfast of bacon sandwiches (even at 46 years old Dad’s still making sure I’m properly fed), a final check of the bike, a hug with Dad (I’m not too old) and it’s a pleasant 7.08am start to what I expect will be a long day in the saddle.
Even on 40mm gravel tyres, the bike pootles along at a
decent clip and I’m soon passing the red brick farmhouses of East Yorkshire’s
agricultural countryside without a care in the world and thoroughly enjoying my
‘me time’. These are the sights and smells of my childhood: Drax power station
dominating the skyline and the pungent aroma of Selby’s flour mills filling my nostrils
making me smile with nostalgia. I’m not even that bothered when I take my first
drink of the day and the nozzle of my bidon breaks off and is lost to the
hedgerow. It just means that bottle will have to stay upright in the seat tube
cage from now on.
East Yorkshire is flat which makes for easy riding when it’s
not windy. On this day it was windy. Not unexpected when you’re riding east to
west in Britain, but it was a stiffer breeze than forecast and although the
fields were rolling by, they weren’t rolling by with quite the speed or ease I
had hoped for. Still, there was no hurry so I adjusted my expectations
accordingly and trundled on.
Kippax-Huddersfield (42-82km)
East Yorkshire gives way to West Yorkshire; red brick gives
way to white stone; warm and dry gives way to warm and showery; rolling roads give
way to undulating give to way “Oh bloody hell, I’d forgotten it could be like
this.”
Skirting south of Leeds and north of Wakefield, I pass
through towns I know well from when I lived in Leeds (Rothwell, Tingley, Batley
– Fox’s biscuits head office factory shop closed for obvious reasons) but I had
forgotten how they are all built on steep, punchy hills. I’m thankful for my
30-34 bottom gear and happily winch my way through the industrial north.
Despite the rain, which is light but becoming more frequent I’m in a good frame
of mind and it is still very much Type 1 fun.
A quick Tesco stop on the edge of Heckmondwike (got to love northern town names) for some dirty road food – a Ginsters chicken and mushroom slice and bottle of Lucozade if you must know – and I drop down towards Huddersfield looking for the Birkby Bradley Greenway. A little bit of research when scanning the route had shown this is a nine mile stretch of cycle path following a disused rail line and is popular with families and bike commuters and, after the incredibly busy town centres I had been through, I’m looking forward to something a little less hectic. And it is… for all of the 2-3 miles I am on it. Still, it’s a relief to be off the roads for a while and I can see why Kirklees Council are looking to extend the path further.
The Greenway drops me at the northern edge of Huddersfield
and I make my way through the suburbs to Crosland Moor south-east of the town.
Crosland Moor-Oldham (82-110km)
With over 1600m of elevation on the day’s route, it can’t be
called flat but the course profile on Komoot told me there were only 3 major
climbs for the day. The climb out of Crosland Moor was the first of the three.
Although not technically the Pennines, it definitely felt
like the landscape was building up to something big. Back down into 30-34 and a
steady 3km winch out of town and up into the wilds of the West Yorkshire
countryside. The view from the top is magnificent, sublime; the kind of view
poets wax lyrical about, and walkers clad themselves head to foot in Berghaus in
order to see, and it’s worth every watt of power I expend to get there. This is
where, once again, I rue my lack of photography skills. No matter what I watch
on YouTube, no matter how many people say, “Just do this…” and show me how to
“do that”, my photography skills are crap and I know it. I take the kind of
photos that Boots used to send back with that sticker on them that warned of
ruined exposures which was just a nice way of saying the photographer is an incompetent
idiot. But still, I stop at the side of the road, treat myself to a Mars and
snap away with my phone in the hope that some of them might come out as half
decent.
I also start to feel out of my comfort zone. I live in on
the border of Dorset and Hampshire and as lovely as they are, they can only be
described as ‘pretty’ with the occasional foray into ‘chocolate box’. Where I
am now isn’t that; it’s vast, powerful, raw and the sky on the horizon, my
horizon, is dark and tempestuous. This is Heathcliffe, Cathy and Wuthering
bloody Heights and I’m riding into it. I’ll be honest, I’m properly
intimidated.
I take a moment, clip in, set off and I soon settle down.
The road undulates with some brief descents followed by longer climbs and then
a long descent into the town of Marsden at the foot of the Pennines. The foot
of climb number two. The foot of the longest and steepest climb of the route
right on to the top of Saddleworth Moor (why is that name familiar?)
The weather has drawn in by now, it’s drizzling and the
clouds above me are black. I’m in my ancient Castelli shower jacket which is
offering no protection from anything and once again old faithful 30-34 is
taking me slowly up out the town, past the park rangers (who seem to know
something I don’t and are taking refuge in their trucks), past the fully
waterproofed hikers who are heading down off the hills and finally out onto the
moor itself.
Then the heavens open.
But this is not just rain. This is a hailstorm. The
hailstones are massive; they’re bouncing off the road; they’re bouncing off me
and they bloody hurt. They’re so big they are literally ringing the bell on my
bike. Down the road I can see what looks like a pub out in the middle of the
moor so I put the hammer down and head for it.
By the time I reach the pub, my arms are stinging from the
hailstones and the hail has turned to torrential rain and I’m soaked through.
As I pull into the car park to find the pub is sort of abandoned - there are
cars parked so someone clearly lives there but the pub bit is boarded up – I
can already feel my feet squelching in my shoes and I’m freezing cold.
While I shelter in the lee of the pub, I take stock of my
surroundings and situation and two things occur to me: 1, The pub and its wild,
isolated location reminds me of the Slaughtered Lamb from ‘An American Werewolf
in London’ which makes me smile, “Just stick to the road and you’ll be safe”;
2, I remember what Saddleworth Moor is (in)famous for and the smile is
immediately wiped from my face. It’s still hammering it down but I don’t want
to be here anymore and figure that if I can drop down the side of the hill the
weather might be better lower down the other side.
I get out onto the road, crest the hill and begin the
descent into Diggle (I kid you not). It’s like riding down a waterfall: the
road is steep and narrow, the rain water is flowing freely and I’m glad of my
hydraulic brakes. I make it gingerly to the bottom of the hill and the rain
does ease off but I feel very sorry for myself and for the first time that day
I seriously consider a, whether I’ve bitten off more than I can chew and b,
should I can the ride?
Out through Diggle and Dobcross and up the third main climb
on the route. It’s a steady and steep climb but the rain has abated and I’ve
only done 100km so I’m still fresh. At the top, I stop and treat myself to a
packet of crisps and a couple of scotch eggs my Dad had suggested I take – they
were a good idea. I sit on a wall and enjoy the view. Komoot says there’s about
75km left to go. It’s about 1.30pm at this point and I’ve been in the saddle
for over 6 hours but the rest of the route is flattish and, although I’m soaked
and cold, if the weather holds off, I’m confident I can make it to Liverpool in
about 4-5 hours.
But the weather doesn’t hold off. What happens next goes
beyond torrential. The rain that hits me as I drop down towards Oldham can only
be described as biblical. Gravel bike? Sod that! I need a bloody ark.
I know the old adage that there is no bad weather, only bad
clothing and I know that I left at home an excellent OMM waterproof jacket that
I save for ‘special occasions’ (and if this isn’t a special occasion, what is?)
but I have never, ever been out on a bike in rain like this. The deluge is so
immense the road immediately floods so that it’s like riding through a stream. I
am utterly, utterly drenched and need to find shelter quickly. I see a OneStop
with an overhang outside and head for it.
As I stand outside the OneStop and question my life choices,
I realise this is not fun anymore. It’s definitely not Type 1 and I suspect it
won’t even be Type 2 after the fact. Even in it’s Quad Lock rain poncho, my
phone is so wet I can’t make the screen work to check my options for pulling
the plug on this ride. I lock up the bike and head into the OneStop to buy
Kleenex and a massive Costa hot chocolate from the machine.
Back outside, I drink my hot chocolate and set to work with
the Kleenex drying my hands and then my phone. It’s still rain cats and dogs
and the rest of the entire animal kingdom but I’m sheltered enough to be able
to work. As far as I can see it, I have two options: 1, a 10km ride to
Manchester Piccadilly railway station and the train home or 2, a 10km ride to
Manchester Victoria and the train to Liverpool.
I’m pretty certain what happens next is a short-circuit in
the brain that most cyclists suffer from but without really considering the
consequences I choose option 2.
Oldham-Manchester-Liverpool (110-120ish km)
The ride into Manchester is horrific. The rain gets worse and
all the old jokes about Manchester and rain play out in my head as I navigate
the busy roads and hideous weather. I’m thankful for every cycle path Komoot takes
me on away from the manic car drivers and massive lorries passing way too close
for comfort but I eventually make it to the station.
Ticket bought and I’m on the train, freezing cold despite
the warm temperature. It’s only a short journey to Liverpool but it’s long
enough for me to calm myself down, eat a Double Decker and drink a full fat
Coke. By the time we reach our destination I’m feeling a bit better about
myself and I step off the train to greeted by warm sunshine.
It’s a very short ride to the Albert Dock Premier Inn and
I’m soon in my room and hanging up my soaking clothes. It takes a full 40
minutes of sitting in the bath, constantly topping it up with steaming hot
water, to finally get my core body temp back up to a point where I’m not
shivering. Thank God, I didn’t consider making this a camping trip.
The rest of the evening is uneventful: dinner for one at
Pizza Express, a walk along the historic waterfront, a quick provision run for tomorrow’s
breakfast and ride then some downtime in front of the TV.
The plan is a 5am alarm for a 6am start so it’s lights out
at 10pm. I check weather forecast one last time; it’s still going to be a very
strong back wind (up to 20mph – yippee) but it’s definitely going to rain for
at least most of the morning (boo hiss).
My only thought as I drift off to sleep is that today was
just supposed to be a transfer day.
Day One: Howden-Liverpool
Distance: 120km (by bike)
Elevation: 1500m
Ride time: 6hrs 20mins
Total time: 7hrs 55 mins
Day Two: Liverpool to Leeds
Liverpool to Burscough Bridge (0-43km)
Morning arrives and I’m already up and about when my alarm
goes off at 5am. Fortunately, overnight, three things have happened to make it
a good start to the day: I’ve slept well, I don’t have any aches, pains or
soreness and all my kit is completely dry. Bonus.
A quick breakfast of Tesco sandwiches, get dressed, packed
up and I’m out on the road by 5.45am. The very strong winds that were promised
have properly arrived and are blowing a hoolie across the Mersey. But that’s
why I’m riding the canal west to east and this is the tailwind I’d been hoping
for. The sky is dark and overcast but it’s dry so I can work with that.
A quick photo with The Beatles, some faffing around in an
industrial estate and I find the canal. It’s the not the very start of the
canal so, being a completist, I ride the 500m or so to the start to get the
obligatory photo. If I’m doing this, then I’m doing this.
The towpath is a mix of either pavement or hardpack gravel
and at this time in the morning there are few commuters using it so I make good
time heading north out of the city. However, as I hit the outskirts it begins
to drizzle which quickly turns to rain which quickly turns to downpour and once
again my ancient rain jacket is soaked through and me with it.
I get off the towpath at Burscough Bridge and take refuge in
the Tescos there. I treat myself to some pecan plaits and a bottle of Lucozade.
I have a bright idea: maybe I can get a cheap waterproof from their clothing
department, but I’m scuppered by them only having summer season clothes
available – insert your own jokes here about British summer clothing including
waterproofs.
As I stand in the shelter of the bikepark and watch the rain
bounce off the ground, I have my first low point of the day. A little over 2
hours in and I’m already wondering if it was worth the effort.
The rain finally eases (but doesn’t stop) so I gird myself
and get back out onto the towpath.
Burscough Bridge to Blackburn (43-98km)
Once I’m riding again, I have a word with myself. It might
be throwing it down but it’s warm(ish), I’ve got a strong tailwind and I’m
under no time pressures whatsoever, so I ease off, look up and start to enjoy
the scenery and the ride.
Passing the DW Stadium at Wigan, the towpath becomes perfect
block paving that gives the impression it’s hovering just above the long grass
either side of it. It’s flat and wide and with the tailwind I’m soon racing
along at 30kmph for very little effort, but it doesn’t last. The block paving
begins to break up and soon the towpath is little more than mud single track at
the side of the canal.
This mixture of terrain becomes the norm as I head north to
Blackburn with gravel towpath frequently giving way to single track of which
some is decidedly broken and a bit of a challenge in the wet even on my 40mm tyres.
I’ve been on the go for nearly 6 hours when I pass Ewood Park Stadium and I’m
tired and drenched and cold. Both the weather and the challenging terrain have
taken their toll, but I’ve realised something else by now: there might not be
much climbing along a towpath but that also means there are no downhills
either. I’ve been pedalling non-stop for the entire time like some kind of
off-road time trial.
I pull off the path at Blackburn and take refuge in Costa.
It’s warm and dry and the enormous latte I order goes some way to thawing me
out. My mood has dipped again: I’m going slower than expected and the ride has
been quite a bit harder than I’d given it credit for. But I also recognise that
most of the issues with my mood are from a lack of sugar in my fuel – I’ve been
eating mainly sandwiches and crisps and, although the carbs and salt have stood
me in good stead, they’ve done nothing to bolster sugar levels. When I hit the
Asda next door for more provisions, I make sure to fill my top tube bag with
Mars and Double Deckers.
Blackburn to Barnoldswick (98-152km)
Out of Blackburn the miraculous happens: the clouds part,
the sun shines and I’m able to shed my jacket for the first time all day. I
quickly dry out and my mood brightens no end. The towpath weaves its way
through the suburbs of Blackburn, the going is easy and I actually begin to
enjoy the riding properly for the first time all day.
And just outside Blackburn I hit the halfway marker:
Liverpool 63.5 miles/Leeds 63.5 miles. It’s weird how such a small thing can
have such an enormous impact on a person’s mentality. A quick stop for a photo
and my brain does that weird thing of completely readjusting its expectations.
A little voice in my mind pipes up, “Just a short 63 mile ride to go and it’s
the ride home.” My brain has clearly chosen to ignore that it’s taken the best
part of 7 hours to get here. Anyway, back on the bike and off we go.
As I leave the town of Clayton-le-Moors behind me, the
countryside opens up and I begin to see just how high the canal has climbed.
The fields around are stunning in the broken sunlight and the towpath reflects
the wilder surroundings as it becomes a narrow, rutted singletrack that is slow
going and rough on the hands and arms.
I come to a sign that says the towpath is closed further on
for works. I know I should have checked if this would happen before I set off
but I’d hoped it wouldn’t be an issue. I don’t fancy retracing my
route along that broken track so opt to push on hoping I might be able to sneak
past the works. My luck is definitely not in.
2km further up the towpath and the route is completely
blocked by fencing and big signs making it clear that ‘sneaking past’ is not an
option. I’m thankful I’m running my phone and Komoot for navigation because the
size of the screen makes it easy to find a road route around the problem. I
retrace my route back to the first sign and head out onto a busy main road
before turning off back to the canal. It’s a 3k detour to circumvent 500m of
closed path. I treat myself to a Double Decker to help put it behind me.
From there it’s an easy run into Burnley and I tick off my
third and final football stadium of the day – Turf Moor. These were not the
sights I’d expected to see on the journey, but it’s been a funny old day and
there’s been something strangely satisfying about seeing them.
The towpath skirts the border of the Forest of Bowland and
when the canal breaks out from its treelines the open fields and rolling hills
a truly magnificent to behold. I try to take some photos with my phone and hope
that some will come out to do the views justice. However, as the views become
wilder and more stunning so the path becomes more rutted and narrow and again I
have to concentrate way more on the riding than I had expected. I slow down
considerably and wind my way to Barnoldswick.
Barnoldswick to Skipton (152-172km)
After a brief foray into Barnoldswick for food and drink,
I’m on my way again. The sun is properly out now (of course it is now that
we’re on the right side of the Pennines) and it has got much warmer but is
still the nice side of pleasant. But I’m mentally and physically knackered and
this is the toughest section of the path. Most of the time I’m out of the saddle
to navigate the wet singletrack along the narrow bank and there are a couple of
moments when my front wheel loses traction and I have to quickly unclip to save
myself. Just the other side of Gargrave the inevitable happens.
Just at a spot where the bank has fallen away, my front tyre
slips in the mud, goes straight off the side of the bank and into the canal. I
unclip in that same instant and get both feet down hoping the water won’t be
deep and for the first time today my luck is in. Mother Nature comes to my
rescue. The reeds are particularly thick in this bank indentation, and I find
myself standing up to my knees in water, front wheel fully submerged, with the
bike and I being held out of the main waterway by the verdant canal flora.
Careful not to break my precarious perch, I lift the bike
onto the path and climb up after it. I’m about to jump back on the bike when I
have yet another word with myself. Perhaps I need a timeout. I plonk my
backside on the grass and break out a Mars bar. Then from somewhere deep inside
me a fit of giggles rises up and I let it all go. God knows what I must look
like; a middle-aged man covered in mud up to his knees, sitting on his arse on
a wet canalside laughing like an utter loon. Whatever I do like look like, I
feel all the better afterwards for getting it out of my system.
The rest of the ride into Skipton is no less treacherous but
much more enjoyable and the sign telling me I’ve reached the highest point on
the canal really just tells me that it’s all downhill from here.
Skipton to Leeds (172-219km)
Through Skipton I’m running low on water and food I know I
should stop to resupply but the truth is I just can’t be bothered. I’m onto the
part of the canal I know well from when I lived in Leeds and I know I can
restock at any one of the towns I’ll be passing through at regular intervals
from now. I am briefly tempted to just get on the main road knowing it’s pretty
much downhill all the way to Leeds but with the end in sight I ignore the
temptation.
At Silsden, I come to a set of gates that seem familiar and
oddly significant. As I manhandle the bike through them it comes to me; this
was the turnaround point for our ride two years ago; this was where the idea
for this ride was born. I take a minute to appreciate that fact, take a couple
of photos and enjoy the realisation that the end is (almost literally) in sight.
From here on it’s a tour of towns from my old road riding
days in and around Leeds: Silsden, Keighley, Bingley 5 Locks (where Col and I
contemplated this idea over coffee and cake) and Saltaire. At Saltaire, I pass
between the converted mills either side of the canal and know that I’m even
closer to the end because this was part of my old running routes. The towpath
is excellent along these stretches and even though I’m completely out of water
and food by now I just keep on pedalling.
Shipley is next and then it’s no more than 7km to my next waypoint:
the bridge across the canal at Apperley Bridge. Reaching here is a milestone.
This is the turn off to my old house and it feels good to be on such happy and
familiar ground. Not only that but about another kilometre along the way I meet
Col coming the other way to meet me. We were supposed to meet to ride in
together then go for something to eat but I’m way behind schedule and he only
has a short time before he has to be somewhere else. Still, it’s great to see
him and his boundless Kiwi enthusiasm keeps me buoyed for the 9km we can ride
together.
A quick hug and a photo and Col peels off leaving me with
about 6km to the end. It’s an easy ride and I’m in no rush so back off what
little pace I have left and take the time to soak in what I’ve achieved. I’ve
ridden across East and West Yorkshire and over the Pennines on a fully-loaded
bike. I’ve ridden the entire length of the Leeds-Liverpool canal. Along the
way, I’ve seen the Pennines in all their glory; I’ve had The Beatles hold my bike
for me; passed three major football stadiums; I’ve ridden through thunder and
hailstorms; I’ve gone front wheel first into the canal and I’ve waved to both
the first and second houses I ever owned. It’s been quite a ride.
And, after all that, it’s just as ignominious an end to the
ride as it was the start. Somewhere by Granary Wharf the canal just ends and
morphs into one of the other many waterways that feed into the River Aire.
Once again, I park the bike and get a quick photo before getting my bearings
and riding on to the station to catch the train back to Howden. Job done
Day Two: Liverpool-Leeds
Distance: 219km
Elevation: 497m
Ride time: 11hrs 40mins
Total time: 13hrs 11mins
Epilogue
Having had a time to reflect on the ride and everything that went with it, there are lessons to be learnt - most of which are obvious from reading what has gone before:
- don't leave perfectly good gear at home - use it
- if the weather doesn't look like it will play ball, leave it. There'll be another day for the ride in the future
- have a better look at the route before you set off - make sure you know exactly what you're getting yourself into
- don't underestimate 'flat' rides
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