“I’m going on an adventure on the Grand Union Canal” I announced to Rachel who flicked her eyes up from her computer. I could tell what she was thinking.
Most of my adventures involve Rachel to some degree. Mostly it involves listening to me as I think aloud making plans, having crazy hare-brained ideas and the like. Second to this it involves driving me somewhere but at least this was a relatively short, local drive. Next in the pecking order would be sweaty lycra clothing needing to be washed together with my endless verbal debriefing fuelled by the Runner’s High. Except now I don’t run, nevertheless there’s still those endorphins buzzing around needing some expression.
The general idea was for Rachel to drive me to Stoke Bruerne, the pretty village in Northamptonshire and bordered by a flight of eight locks and the Blisworth tunnel. Once there I’d cycle back to Leighton Buzzard along the towpath and meet Rachel at Tescos.
What could possibly go wrong?
The first mile or so was fine. Nice gravelly surface on the towpath, wide enough for cyclists to pass each other without too many problems. Soon it became more and more narrow to the point I could hardly see where I was meant to go. My sunglasses were making things worse as I nearly wobbled off the path and into the canal. It is not as if the tiny, narrow path was flat and plain sailing; every now and the there would be a sneaky tree root growing at a 45º angle and perfect for sending me off course.
Amazingly I stayed on track. The vegetation quickly changed, almost matching the change of one field to another. Course thorny brambles snagged my shirt as I ducked under quite a few, hoping I was still vaguely in control of my bike.
Then, as if by the flick of a switch, brambles were quickly exchanged for stinging nettles which took great delight in sharing their poison on every turn of the pedal. After a few metres I was past caring, I just ploughed on, grinning with every bump, sting, scratch and flying kamikaze insect.
As the miles rolled on, albeit quite slowly, I wasn’t needing to change gear at all. While there were hardly any boats on the move, there were a few people messing about in their boats and this added interest. The best was one moored under a wide bridge which I think was on the outskirts of Milton Keynes. Twangy guitar music echoed around as I glided past, I nodded approvingly to the boat owner who was in the middle of some repairs. He nodded back, almost like the unspoken code between motorcyclists or even random pedal cyclists on the towpath. I wish now I’d stopped to chat and see where the conversation went.
Speaking on MK, I figured it was roughly the half way point and so I found a nice bench to sit down and have lunch. Except I didn’t have anything! I had vaguely thought I’d come across a little shop but there weren’t any obviously around. I consoled myself by drinking the rest of my finest tap water.
Once I arrived at the Three Locks, I knew I was as good as home. This was a turn-around point on my Saturday morning canal runs. I was slightly amused at the way the National Cycle Route had been absorbed into the restaurant. While I didn’t mind, as it was a convenient place to stop for a little rest, I thought some might take exception.
Just four miles later I would be back at Leighton Buzzard and rendezvous with Rachel. Those last few miles were hard going for me. It was hot, hot, hot and I was hungry. The reality is I am also out of shape. It was roughly a marathon distance and I felt better after running marathons rather than a mere 26 miles of flat cycling.
Doug, take note. Get a grip on yourself.
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