Way of the Roses – Day 2

Going to bed after watching a bit of Match of the Day the night before I woke up and turned the television on again to be greeted by the rerun of Match of the Day. My last memory of the day before was listening to Phil Neville (or Philip as he now demands to be known) and here again, as I tried to wake up, was Phil-ip on the screen pointing out that a team had won their match because they had scored more goals than the other (I jest you not).

The weather was as glorious as it had been the previous evening so we decided to go and meet Eric Morecambe’s statue down on the promenade before setting off on our bikes. If you remember someone tried to saw off one of his legs last year and he had only recently been restored and fixed back in place. I don’t know what anyone would have against Eric Morecambe; if it was a statue of Robert Mugabe then I could understand but not Eric. Perhaps someone had mistaken it for a statue of Noel Edmonds in a drunken rage (see day 1).

On our way back to the hotel we passed some remnants of the old Frontierland fairground in Morecambe, the most obvious being the Polo Tower. Which is a big tower. Sponsored by Polo. Hence the name. Christ only knows why it hasn’t been torn down since the demise of Frontierland. I did feel like some Polos after walking past it though.

It was time to officially start the Way of the Roses so off we popped along the same path we had come into Morecambe on.

About two miles into it, we superbly managed to meet a Morecambe marathon event that was using the shared path as part of its route. Some runners were going the same way as us, most were coming the other way. To anyone watching it, it must have looked like us two were in the event but cheating by using bikes. It seemed like everyone in Morecambe was running this effing thing. Except for one woman out walking her dogs on the path who point-blank refused to move over in any way and just strolled through a cloud of runners with her two dogs as if they weren’t there.

After we passed all of the runners (and therefore winning the race – yes!) we left Morecambe and were back near Lancaster on the same cycle path. Like the Preston Guild Wheel from the first day, this cycle path is another great example of an off-road cycle path that worms through a city and is used by plenty of people (I don’t just mean on marathon days).

We both knew after leaving Lancaster that we wouldn’t see a city of this size for a good while. We also knew that today was going to be the first hilly one and so it was as we left the off-road path that the gradient began to increase with a series of short, sharp hill climbs. You can always tell how tough a hill is by how steamed up your sunglasses get as you ascend. If you can’t see anymore it’s because the gradient is above 18%. Or you are dead.

On one of these climbs we met a big herd of sheep who were  ambling past us looking terrified. We couldn’t see a farmer in sight but did see a chicken amongst the sheep so we assumed that was herding them. One of them wouldn’t move for us though and just stood dormant and dozy in the middle of the road looking at me and John with an expression that said ‘What? I fucking live around here you Scouse bellends’. Eventually it moved after we rang our very manly bells.

We cycled on until we reached the northern part of the Forest of Bowland, an area we have cycled around before and has some great hills. John is like The Road Runner from the old Looney Tunes cartoons when we descend hills. I half-expect to hear ‘Meep! Meep!’ as he disappears down another hill as I frantically cycle after him on my Acme bike.

After the Forest of Bowland we passed into the county of Yorkshire and were rewarded with some more taxing hills. We were making good time so decided to stop near Clapham for a well-deserved pint. Although it tasted like nectar from the gods, I can now conclusively prove that beer is not a performance-enhancing drug. As well as painfully expanding my bladder it filled me with so much gas that I felt like Charlie in the Chocolate Factory when he is burping to survive with his Grandpa.

Some of the final climbs into Settle were the steepest yet and after we rolled down the final hill into the township and checked our phones to see where our lodgings were for the night, it was with some amusement that we realised we had to go back up the hill to get to our accommodation. My bladder had expanded to the size of a small Jovian moon so I powered up the hill to get to the pub, leaving John in my wake for once. It’s food for thought though; if all of these top cyclists who were done for doping simply drank too much before they started racing I reckon they would shatter all records as they raced for the finishing line (and toilet).

Another day was done though and again we were lucky with the weather, being treated to some spectacular views of the Lancashire and Yorkshire countryside vistas along the way. The legs and buttocks were definitely beginning to feel the pain though. Oh well, only another 130 miles to go!

Placename of the day: Crook O’ Lune. I just like the name.