Sleepless in Ilkley

We spent the weekend at Mrs BW's sister and her family. They live in Ilkley which is a lovely little town a few miles outside Leeds. We had a really good time interesting walks, up on the moor, and a BBQ in the evening. Mrs BW sat up late into the night chatting with her sister by the fire side, the fledglings entertained themselves with their cousins and all in all everyone had a good time. Except......

I took a cup of coffee to bed. The floor of the room we were sleeping in was a pristine cream colour. Sometime in the middle of the night, around about 2.30am I awoke from a disturbing dream and reached out to check the time. There was a thud. I knew instantly that the half drunken cup of coffee was now soaking into the cream coloured carpet. I shook Mrs BW to wake her. She wasn't best pleased especially when she turned the light on and found that, yes the coffee had been spilt on the floor and that yes quite a lot of it had soaked, in fact was at this very minute was soaking into the cream coloured carpet, but that most of it had spilt on her favourite jumper that she had carelessly abandoned in the danger zone. She said something that would have made even our front row blush, and I went off in search of a cloth. Despite my (well Mrs BW's really) best efforts to clean it up, the carpet was well and truly stained.

Mrs BW suggested that sleep was the best course of action, turned off the light and promptly fell asleep. I however could not sleep. I was trying to work out how I could explain the mess that I had made.

I needed the loo. So I got out of bed and found the upstair toilet. The bowl seemed to have rather a lot of toilet paper in it so before I did anything I flushed the toilet. The water rose to an inch below the rim and then stayed there. I stared at it in disbelief willing it to go back down. It didn't. What was I to do? Flush it again? But then it might overflow and in the space of thirty minutes I would have ruined a carpet and been partly responsible for flooding the bathroom. Back in our room I prodded Mrs BW awake. "You re not going to believe this I said" She looked at me through sleep burdened eyes.

"This better be very good" she said and I have to say that there was a distinct air of menace about the way she said it.

"The toilet is blocked. I think that it might overflow and ........."

"Well use the one downstairs and let me get to SLEEP!"

I had sort of hoped that she would have volunteered to go and have a look at it, she being a DIY expert. But she was obviously asleep and it did not seem worth continuing the conversation. I went down and used the downstairs loo and got back in bed.

It must have been about five thirty, that still awake and rehearshing my excuses, that I began to worry about the car keys. I could not remember where I had put them . It was light enough not to have to put the light on, so I rummaged about the room looking under piles of clothing. No sign of them. I popped downstairs to check in my fleece. They were bound to be there but I had better check just to put my mind at rest. So I down stairs I went. My fleece pockets were empty of keys. I began to feel a mild sense of panic. Back upstairs in our room, I had one final look. Nothing, no sign of them. Nothing for it. I prodded Mrs BW. "Can't find the car keys. Have you got them?"

It must of taken a few minutes for this to sink in. She looked at me, well straight through me for a minute or two before what I had said sank in. "You can't find the car keys? Its the middle of the night, what are you doing looking for them now?"

"Couldn't sleep, and I remembered that I had not seen them since the afternoon." I said.

"And you've checked all your pockets."

"Oh yes, I have been downstairs and they are not in my fleece"

"What about the pockets of your walking trousers?"

My walking trousers! Of course! I scrabbled around on the floor, found them and when I lifted them up I could tell that they were full of car keys!

"Oh. Right well I sort of forgot that I was wear....."

She was not listening. She had stormed out of bed and left the room. She returned minutes later. "Right, I have found your wretched car keys, tried to clean up the mess that you have made on the carpet, and by the way just gone and flushed the upstairs loo and which has cleared the blockage. Is there anything more that you would like me to do? or can I get some SLEEP"

I thought about saying that a cup of tea could be nice but years of experience and the urge to survive intervened, and I stayed silent. Soon Mrs BW was fast asleep. The sunlight was streaming in through the cracks in the curtains the birds were singing happily outside, while I was left to contemplate what had been one of my less successful nights.

All is well that ends well though. Mrs BW's sister was very understanding about the floor and said that it had had much worse on it and the VAX would sort it out. I briefly toyed with the idea of telling her the story about our rugby tour to Spain, the hotel bedroom carpet and the story of how I put my mobile phone in the washing machine but thought better of it.

We went for another walk on Sunday and some of us collected billberries and all the fledglings got covered in juice and the sun shone and I slept all the way home in the car to make up for my lack of sleep the previous night. An excellent weekend!

Something Else I am no good at!

I decided too try and fix my bike chain. Wow! Big Deal! Actually for me it is. Changing a plug is a major feat. As I have said before Mrs BW does not let me do DIY in our house. She has learnt the hard way. Ornaments sliding off shelves that are not quite straight ("What do mean your meant to use a spirit level?") Paint that hasn't quite made it onto the walls and we won't mention that time I tried to put up easy to make shelving in the garage. So for me to fix a bike chain is a major event. The nice man in the shop said it was ever so easy. All you needed was a tool for removing the rivets in the links, (he was losing me already). Oh yes he added and you should check the tautness of the chain when the mechanism is at five o'clock. Well between four and five o'clock he added and helpfully he demonstrated this by sticking his arms out at a funny angle. I looked at my watch. It was half past four. Did that matter I wondered? He gave me a funny look. To be honest I wasn't that bothered. I would look it up on the Internet. Full of useful information is the Internet and there was bound to be a step by step idiot proof guide to putting on a bicycle chain. So I paid for the chain and the helpful tool and with a song on my lips came home to sort it out. I checked the Internet. It was full of sites with helpful step by step guides, even videos showing you how to fix a bicycle chain. I started watching one. An extremely clean looking bloke wheeled his bike into a fabulously clean garage and got on with changing his chain. There were action replays of the difficult bits. To be honest I got a bit bored and skipped quite a lot of it. After all just how difficult could it be.

Our garage resembles a tip. It is stacked full of bits of tent, bikes and things that are going off to be recycled. I would have to fix my bike on the drive. Never mind. The sun was out and there did not seem to be too many of the neighbours around. So I started. The video seemed to be misleading. The chain that the bloke had in it remained passive. It did what it was told. My chain however seemed to be determined not to be fitted. It kept on curling up and twisting itself back on itself, and it would never stay in one place. It took me quite a long time to work out how it actually went on. I tried looking at the other bikes that we have littering the garage but every time I seemed to worked it out, as soon as I turned my back and bent down to replicate it, I forgot whether it went over or under this or that particular cog. Eventually after much straining, swearing and scrabbling around on the floor for things that I had dropped, I got it fitted. Sort of. It stayed on and wasn't too lose, that was until I tried to turn the pedals. Then it got jammed. the smallest birdwatcher came out and helpfully pointed out that he thought that I had located it incorrectly on the derailleur! I thanked him. "You'll have to do it again Dad" I thanked him again. "Anyway Mum says its tea so you've got to come in. Blimey your hands are a mess!" They were as well. Covered in oil and grease. Unlike the bloke in the video who could have carried out open heart surgery with his, so clean were they.

So as I write this my bike lies forlornly in the garage with one very incorrectly fitted chain. And I have found something else that I cannot do!

At last its Stopped Raining

So what better way of spending an evening than going for a bike ride. Strangely no one else wants to go, Mrs BW preferring her exercise class at the local swimming pool, and the fledglings......yeah okay stupid question. So I go on my own. Its a perfect evening. The sun is shinning, its warm but not oppressive, I feel relaxed and in a good mood. The bike has rested in the garage since the recent epic cycle ride and needs to be taken out. I pump up the tyres and set off.

Some kids kicking a ball about snigger as I pass. They laugh at my cycling helmet. I ignore them. Down past the golf club past the nineteenth hole where a few early drinkers raise a glass as I whizz by. This is good.

I decide to put a bit of effort into it and change gear. There is a grating noise. There shouldn't be a grating noise. I look down. The chain has come off, in fact worse it has snapped. The sun goes in. Something black and growling is sitting on my shoulder.

I lay the bike tenderly on the grass verge and fiddle pitifully with the snapped chain. I will have to walk back. I try to think of a bright side. I can't other than the fact that I could be further from home than I am, but I don't really call that a bright side.

I should have listened to the man in the bicycle repair shop who when I asked him if he could give my bike the once over before I did my sponsored ride, said that he could, but he would feel less guilty stealing sweets from children. It was knackered and not worth spending any money on. Of course I didn't listen to him. But I did do the sponsored ride, so I guess the bright side is that the chain could have gone on the Cat and Fiddle.

Maybe its time for a new bike, after all its been fourteen years since my last one.

Notes on a Cyclist Part 2

The Cat and Fiddle stretches on into the mist. I'm bringing up the rear. Well actually that implies I have some control over the matter. I don't. I'm last because I am not a cyclist. It is not going up the hills that cause me trouble, its the downhill bits. While the others speed off into the distance I shudder and grind my way down the steep bits, dabbing the brakes. I don't trust my bike. For good reason. It sheds bits of itself, such as nuts and bolts, every now and again. So I a bringing up the rear. Its raining! Heavily! At last the summit of the Cat and Fiddle can be seen, and there in the pub car park are my companions eager to get onto Macclesfield.

The descent into Macclesfield is good. Not to steep so I can free wheel, and gradually build up speed. Once we arrive in Macclesfield, we head off along the canal tow path. After the rain and cold Macclesfield is positively balmy, almost spring like. We make good progress on the canal path, though we have to be careful. One careless wobble and you could be drinking canal water and by the look of it it would put you in hospital or worse.

Canal boats drift by, dog walkers and their dogs scatter in our wake, while the fisherman sit by the bank tensing as we pass, annoyed at this intrusion into the peace of their Saturday morning. It stops raining briefly and the sun comes out. We keep going, occasionally crossing the canal by bridge to follow the tow path on the other side. We are covered in mud, and the path becomes increasingly muddy. It starts to rain again. Reaching the end of the canal stretch at Buxworth we stop for a drink at the Navigation. The rain is cascading down heavier than ever. This is the worst bit. My gears have become clogged with mud, they stick and won't shift so that the slightest slope becomes a challenge. Unfortunately most of the way back along the A6 is steadily uphill until Dove Holes. I am last again.

At last we are through Dove Holes and the final downhill stretch into Buxton is a joy, a pleasure as all the ache and pain lifts and even the steady incessant rain cannot dampen my spirits. The showers in the Fire Station wash away the grime and the beer in the London Road sweet and refreshing. The sandwiches and roast potatoes the landlady provides is food for the gods. I am happy and content. pleased with myself even, but that is enough cycling for one year.

Some Notes on a Cyclist Part One

Sunday

Just when I reach the point of no return, when it makes no difference whether I go back or carry on, it starts to rain. Heavily. It drips off my helmet, it soaks into my fleece. I am on my bike 10 miles from home. I am on my bike because several months ago I agreed to do a charity bike ride. It has been organised by Phil on behalf of the NSPCC. It seemed such a good idea at the time. And now our photo has appeared in the Advertiser and people have said “Saw your photo in the Advertiser. Fifty miles! Good luck!” This latter comment aimed at me rather than the distance. People don’t see me as a cyclist, I don’t see myself as a cyclist for heavens sake. So I decided as it was only a week away I better get some practise, better get the old bike out and dust it down to make sure it works, and so here I am ten miles away from home, cold, knackered and getting wetter by the minute.

It says in the Advertiser that we are going to “tackle” the Cat and Fiddle. They think they have been clever I suppose using the word tackle in the piece, because most of the intrepid cyclists are from Buxton Rugby Club. Very funny! The Cat and Fiddle is a modest little climb out of Buxton on the Macclesfield road. The summit if one can use such a bold word is the site of the Cat and Fiddle pub. Personally I think the Cat and Fiddle will eat me and my bike. I just hope that it spits me out at the top.

The rain gets heavier, but perversely I begin to enjoy it. Must be the endorphins. Just after I rattle across a cattle grid, my pedal falls off. A nut has come lose. The endorphins seem to have stopped working. Amazingly I find the nut and having sensibly brought along a spanner that fits, I fix the pedal and carry on. I reach Sparrow Pit and despite the rain which is now lashing and slanting across from the Kinder plateau, I feel good.

Only seven miles to go! I glide past Bennetson Lake. Well when I say a lake in reality it is more of a pond really. Last June in the warmth of a summer Saturday afternoon as England mourned the demise of its football team in the World cup yet again, a group of us, hot, dusty, dirty and pissed after a cycling come pub crawl through the Hope Valley, decided to stop and cool off in this pond. There were barriers across the path, but they were nothing to us as we were determined. What a sight it must have made from the main road. Ten naked fat rugby players swimming in a murky pond. The rain gets heavier and I plod on. Through Dove Holes, perhaps the ugliest village in England? So they, who ever they are say, and back into Buxton. I feel happy, and elated. Maybe next week won’t be so bad after all.