Heights of Madness by Jonny Muir

Author:Jonny Muir [Jonny Muir]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781857828498
Publisher: John Blake Publishing
Published: 2012-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

DAY 40 – DARLEY DALE TO EDALE: 36 MILES

Cheeks Hill (Staffordshire): 520m

Kinder Scout (Derbyshire): 636m

I departed from my campground by the River Derwent at nine o’clock, giving me one hour to cover the 15 miles to Axe Edge Moor, where James would be waiting for me with a shiny new wheel. As it transpired, the journey became three hours of purgatory, the most frustrating of 40 days in the saddle. There were a number of reasons.

First, I wasn’t in the mood. It’s just one of those things, isn’t it? Sometimes you wake up raring to go, while at other times you just… well… can’t be bothered. Life is too much effort. Packing away the tent was exhausting, loading up panniers laborious and even the thought of brushing my teeth was too much like hard work. There were thirty-plus miles of Peak District cycling to pedal, and the summits of Staffordshire and Derbyshire to conquer. Tantalising in theory, but in wind and rain, on top of consecutive days of eyeballs-out effort? I’ll leave it thanks. It was moments like these when I knew I had to find some motivation, a chink of hope to drag me onto the bicycle, whether it was the promise of a day off in a week’s time or a Mars Bar at the next village store. Anything to keep the mind sane and the legs moving.

Second, the terrain. Come back the Fens, all is forgiven. The ride started with a hideous climb through Darley Bridge. For cold, stiff and unresponsive legs to be forced into such strenuous activity so early in the day was a mistake. They trembled like jelly, as if cycling was an alien concept. Taking pity on them, I stopped in Winster, craving energy and enthusiasm. That promised Mars Bar helped. After the initial long uphill drag, I was taken along a series of never-ending ups and downs as the road wandered through Youlgreave and Middleton. Just after Arbor Low stone circle, country lanes finally emerged onto the main A515 to Buxton, which brings me neatly to my next excuse.

Third, the wind – enemy-in-chief to cyclists. At least the tree-lined country lanes had been sheltered. Pedalling north on the A515, a cruel wind peppered me with blows like a boxer, not one of them big enough for a knock out, but each one draining me of what little strength remained.

Fourth, mechanical capitulation. My bicycle had been brave. Since Castle Rising, I had nursed it through three days and 180 miles, but now the end was near. The bearings were now so badly worn that one in every three pedal strokes failed to drive the rear wheel. Gradually, it became two out of three, and then, with Axe Edge Moor on the horizon but still three miles distant, life was extinguished. It was painless, just a final defiant clunk and the bearings gave up. The pedals still spun frantically, but they were no longer turning the wheel. Faced with no other alternative, I dismounted and pushed the last three miles.

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