Average Speed: 8.5 mph
Distances: 67.8 miles / 31.1 miles
Distance Cycled Total: 613.3 miles
Feet climbed: 2841.2 / 1197.5, 29,548.1 total
Difficulty level: Easy then very challenging / Very challenging then easy
Jamie had sent me a Google Maps screenshot of the route from Stafford to the ever-so-vague “Upper Booth Campsite” in the Peaks District. 65 miles. With a monster climb at the end.
I told him it shouldn't be a problem.
Oh! A canal towpath! Single track! Tree roots!
“SLIGHT LEFT”
Ahhh… beautiful groomed cycleway through the forest. Sometimes Google gets it right.
I could see the short section of path that was closed. Nothing seemed to be going on. It looked clear on the other side. I mean, in America, how often is road work actually happening when roads are closed for “Road Work”? So I hauled my bike and all of its gear up a steep embankment and past the gate. Road work my ass! I thought.
Turns out there were indeed men working there, and they just watched me in stunned silence as I hurled my gear over the second boundary. I pretended I didn’t see them. It was awkward.
I’m that guy.
I noticed a construction worker setting up a barrier in the distance and cycled through a field for a chat, hoping he’d let me through. Not a chance.
I didn’t mention that I already fumbled my way through one barrier.
Jamie’s route brought me into No Man’s Land, and I couldn’t help but think he was messing with me. What kind of destination is ‘Upper Booth Campsite’? I thought more than once. But I followed Lady Google's vocal instructions dutifully.
Sure, per technology, my estimated time of arrival was 4:30 PM.
There was barbecue. There was beer. And there was nowhere else I would’ve rather been.
P.S.
Difficulty level: Easy then very challenging / Very challenging then easy
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| Jamie, Loki, and Me |
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| "Sure you got it in 'ya?" |
“You sure you got it in ya’?” he texted.
Normally, I’d be offended by the question. 65 miles was par- if not below par- for both the American and European trips we’ve done together.
But it’s a fair inquiry. My distances have been short, and my routes indirect. Jamie knows this. He knows me: my bad habits, my penchant for getting lost, my late starts, my addiction to convenience stores. All of it.
However, the window was closing on Jamie’s vacation from work: One day left. One opportunity to camp out for a night and shoot the shit.
According to Google Map’s bicycle feature, it was a six hour ride. I have learned to add at least 50% to whatever is predicted. Google might know how to tailor advertisements to me, and how to intuitively auto-fill embarrassing searches like “How to set up a tent” before I type the fourth word, but it certainly thinks too highly of me as a cyclist.
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| Peaks District. Lots of peaks. |
“It’s called the Peak District for a reason…” he added.
“It might not be pretty, but I always make the goal,” I responded.
“True that.”
Like I said. Jamie knows me.
When I set off from Virginia to begin my Trans-America cycle to San Francisco three years ago, I started noticing I was always writing my name just below his in guest books at places we had both visited. Day after day I read Jamie Norton- Manchester as I wrote Jim Quinlan- Westtown just below, dated one day later. It became a goal of mine to catch up with him.
And eventually I did.
We finished that trip together, then completed the bulk of the European tour together as well. Sometimes cycling with one another, often not- always respecting one another’s independent nature. And always laughing. Hard.
It would be a crime to miss a reunion, especially since I was headed straight through his
home city.
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| Heading into the Peak District |
So I set off from the ho-hum town of Stafford at 9 AM, proud of my early-ish start. And for the fist time since leaving Lands End, I threw in my earbuds… not to listen to music, but rather to hear firsthand directions from the soothing female voice that is behind Google Maps.
“TURN LEFT,“ she said with a touch of enthusiasm as I entered a huge roundabout.
“Which left?” I asked aloud. When you’re in a roundabout, everything is a left.
She didn’t answer, so I guessed.
“MAKE A U-TURN,” she said, pleasantly.
I did. Back into the roundabout. Four more options.
“TURN LEFT,” she said again. I tried the next exit, and this seemed to momentarily satisfy her.
“TURN LEFT,” 500 feet later.
Okay.
“TURN LEFT.”
No problem.
“TURN LEFT.”
Back into the roundabout.
1/4 mile into the day, and I needed a break to study the map.
The National Cycle Network in the U.K. is amazing. Organized by the charity Sustrans, it has labeled nearly 17,000 miles of cycle friendly routes. When you see the little blue bicycle stickers on sign posts, you know you’re in safe hands, and you can breathe a sigh of relief.
Once you’re off it? Good luck.
“TURN RIGHT.”
 |
| Awful. |
“TURN LEFT”
On a major highway? You sure?
“SHARP RIGHT”
What’s this? A rustic overgrown horse trail?
“SLIGHT LEFT”
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| Perfect. |
“CONTINUE STRAIGHT”
Ummm… that appears to be a wall.
By my fortieth mile, my patience was short. And when I finally- finally- came to a path that was sanctioned by both Google and the National Cycle Network, I was met with a temporary fence and a sign: PATH CLOSED.
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| Gates were made for ignoring. |
I could see the short section of path that was closed. Nothing seemed to be going on. It looked clear on the other side. I mean, in America, how often is road work actually happening when roads are closed for “Road Work”? So I hauled my bike and all of its gear up a steep embankment and past the gate. Road work my ass! I thought.
Turns out there were indeed men working there, and they just watched me in stunned silence as I hurled my gear over the second boundary. I pretended I didn’t see them. It was awkward.
I’m that guy.
But I persevered, delighted that I’d cleverly evaded what was sure to be a major detour.
Then, another PATH CLOSED sign.
I noticed a construction worker setting up a barrier in the distance and cycled through a field for a chat, hoping he’d let me through. Not a chance.
“Do you see that electrical cable?” He gestured upward. Couldn’t miss it. “That’s coming down any minute now. If you continue on, you’re going to die.”
Oops.
I didn’t mention that I already fumbled my way through one barrier.
He suggested taking a major highway instead. Google agreed. It sucked.
But when you’re off-route, you’re off route. Without local knowledge, and devoid of savvy in general, I was at technology’s mercy.
As I neared mile 60, I threw all my trust into the Maps app as I was entering a “no service” zone. If I so much as accidentally closed it, it would never re-route me. So I climbed. And climbed. And climbed.
It was a Utah climb. Long. Slow. Tough. But manageable.
It was a Utah climb. Long. Slow. Tough. But manageable.
The Peak District is indeed aptly named.
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| Vicky and Jamie |
And then I descended.
It was an Appalachian descent. Quick. Sharp. Steep. But fun.
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| Loki- a shiba inu pup |
I made it at 8:30.
And across a field, I saw Jamie, his girlfriend Vicky, and his new puppy Loki well before they saw me.
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| THIS BEER SPONSORED BY CROSSWORD BLOGGER EXTRAORDINAIRE JENNI LEVY! TO SPONSOR A BEER, CLICK HERE |
“I was wondering if you were going to find us… because I wasn’t gonna go out searching for your sorry ass,” he said.
“It might not be pretty, but I always make the goal.”
“True that.”
Hey, Jenni! Been a while since I've done a crossword. Getting rusty... little help?
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