Average Speed: 9 mph
Distance: 48.6 miles
Distance Cycled Total: 871.7 miles
Feet climbed: 1,874 ; 40,310.1 total
Difficulty level: Not too hard
When I was leaving Hebden Bridge a few days ago, I stopped to examine my route for the day, unaware I was blocking someone's driveway. I hadn't noticed a car approaching either, and as I stood there calculating how painful my day would be, the car waited to turn. It was probably two minutes or more before a woman rolled down her window and said "Pardon me... I was wondering if... I mean... I just have to get my car there where you're standing."
I looked at the driveway, then back at her, and chuckled. "You're telling me to get out of the way!"
My bluntness seemed to surprise her, and she paused to consider a response. "Politely," she finally said, politely.
The Brits are famously (if not infamously) polite. What I deserved was a gentle "beep beep." I would've moved instantly with a "my bad" gesture. But manners got in the way.
So when my British guidebook mentioned that today's ride "...[would not be] the most scenic" of the journey, I had a funny feeling that meant something else. It's like when people describe their studio apartments on Airbnb as "cozy."
"Cozy" = "Cramped"
"Not the most scenic" = "Fucking ugly"
And in that respect, the day did not disappoint.
It started ugly. There was a whole lotta ugly in the middle. And it finished ugly. In all
respects.
A few miles outside of Gretna Green, in the town of Ecclefechan, I stopped at a small general store for some daily provisions: Two bottles of water and three granola bars. The usual. But there was a dispute over the payment.
Everyone here pays with contactless credit cards, even for the smallest purchases. Cash is a rarity. However, as America hasn't adopted the contactless system, I still have to insert my card into the machine like a Neanderthal. It often gives cashiers some pause, as they've forgotten that once upon a time customers used to have to sign a piece of paper promising to pay the amount due.
The cashier at the Ecclefechan general store seemed genuinely befuddled when the machine spat out a double copy of the receipt, one half of which I was supposed to sign and leave with her, and she stared at it for some time. I started to gently explain the process and reached over to tear the paper in two, where the halves were supposed to be separated. She came to life, as if suddenly recalling a brief mention of this type of situation in her employee training manual. She grabbed both of my wrists before I could complete the tear and thrust me back, as if I were mishandling the Scottish Declaration of Independence.
I was stunned.
She examined the tear I had made before slowly completing it herself. To her credit, her tearing skills were far better than mine.
She slowly handed me a pen: it was time for the signing process. I obliged, passed the signed slip across the counter, and began to collect my items. She grabbed my wrist again.
"I need to see the card."
Of all the security measures that have been taken to deter credit card fraud, comparing one's signature on the receipt to the one on back of the card has to be the stupidest. I refuse to sign the backs of cards, much preferring someone check my government issued ID should they bother to check. I automatically handed her both my debit card and my license.
"This card isn't signed."
"I know," I explained. "I prefer someone examine my license."
"Yes, but if the card isn't signed it's not valid. It could be fraudulent."
Huh? Keep in mind, everyone else in the UK simply waves a card in front of a machine and no one checks anything.
"But you can clearly see that the name on the front of the card is the same as the one on my ID."
"It doesn't matter. The rules say if the card is not signed it is not valid." Without further discussion, she voided the transaction, and bid me goodbye.
I went out to my bicycle, found a pen, signed the damn card, and walked back in. I followed
behind the cashier as she restocked my items, picking each one back up as soon as it was shelved before returning to the checkout.
She wanted nothing to do with my freshly signed payment, but I persisted, once again showing her my license. Reluctantly, she compared the signature on the license to the signature on the card before declaring they did not match. Trust me, they matched.
"But it's me in the picture on the license!" I couldn't say this without laughing at the overall absurdity of the situation.
She declared that my license picture did not look like me.
"Do you have a razor I could borrow?"
She didn't seem to understand my humor.
Finally a manager came over, heard a brief overview of the situation, and looked at the clerk incredulously. "How much is the purchase?" he asked. It was seven pounds. "You're stressing this guy out on his holiday over a seven pound purchase!" He accepted my payment with an apology. The clerk was pissed. I won.
To be honest, I wasn't stressed at all. I was entertained. I could've paid cash.
Three granola bars and two water bottles later, I started the day's grind. A slow ascent on a rainy day along a crumbly shoulder (which was dubbed a "cycle lane") parallel with a loud highway. A long, boring slog of a day.
It would've been the perfect time to listen to music or a podcast, and drown out the sounds of
the major motorway- I haven't listened to anything other than an electronic voice giving me directions thus far- but I'd accidentally rolled my earbuds into my tent when I was packing up in the morning. Instead, it was the music of the highway as my road went along with it, the two occasionally having a tango when we crossed.
My rear tire went flat at mile 27. A car buzzed me at mile 34. The rain picked up again at mile 39.
Occasionally there was a glimpse of Scotland's acclaimed beauty, but it was rare.
It was one of those days that I consider a sacrifice when touring. "Get it done. Better stuff is ahead." Reading between the lines, the guidebook puts its tail between its legs in a veiled apology and declares this leg as the most direct route to Glasgow.
Fortunately, I did meet some wonderful people. Cliff and Carol, who were touring on a tandem.
Australian Shaun, who touted the wonders of riding while completely stoned.
And lastly, and impressive man named Mark Warren, who is completing the same route as I for a charity called Event Mobility. Unlike me, Mark is planning to finish his entire ride in only eleven days, where each day requires him to ride for more than 100 miles. His supportive family rides ahead of him and sets up camp, where they offered me dinner.
I didn't want to impose, and instead hoped there was a local pub nearby.
But in Abington, there's nothing.
Except for a Burger King at a highway rest area.
And for the first time this trip, I had a bad meal, which seemed a fitting end to the day.
I was, however, lucky enough to find a bottle of cider to bring back to camp.
The crispy chicken sandwich I ordered wasn't enough to fulfill me. But that wasn't a big deal.
I still had three granola bars and two bottles of water to wash them down.
P.S.
Difficulty level: Not too hard
 |
| Not exactly sure what this is, or why it boasts the name of a French city... but it was along today's route. |
When I was leaving Hebden Bridge a few days ago, I stopped to examine my route for the day, unaware I was blocking someone's driveway. I hadn't noticed a car approaching either, and as I stood there calculating how painful my day would be, the car waited to turn. It was probably two minutes or more before a woman rolled down her window and said "Pardon me... I was wondering if... I mean... I just have to get my car there where you're standing."
I looked at the driveway, then back at her, and chuckled. "You're telling me to get out of the way!"
My bluntness seemed to surprise her, and she paused to consider a response. "Politely," she finally said, politely.
The Brits are famously (if not infamously) polite. What I deserved was a gentle "beep beep." I would've moved instantly with a "my bad" gesture. But manners got in the way.
So when my British guidebook mentioned that today's ride "...[would not be] the most scenic" of the journey, I had a funny feeling that meant something else. It's like when people describe their studio apartments on Airbnb as "cozy."
"Cozy" = "Cramped"
"Not the most scenic" = "Fucking ugly"
And in that respect, the day did not disappoint.
It started ugly. There was a whole lotta ugly in the middle. And it finished ugly. In all
 |
| Most of today's scenic vista. The highway sign reads "Yellow Warning: Heavy Rain Forecast" |
A few miles outside of Gretna Green, in the town of Ecclefechan, I stopped at a small general store for some daily provisions: Two bottles of water and three granola bars. The usual. But there was a dispute over the payment.
Everyone here pays with contactless credit cards, even for the smallest purchases. Cash is a rarity. However, as America hasn't adopted the contactless system, I still have to insert my card into the machine like a Neanderthal. It often gives cashiers some pause, as they've forgotten that once upon a time customers used to have to sign a piece of paper promising to pay the amount due.
The cashier at the Ecclefechan general store seemed genuinely befuddled when the machine spat out a double copy of the receipt, one half of which I was supposed to sign and leave with her, and she stared at it for some time. I started to gently explain the process and reached over to tear the paper in two, where the halves were supposed to be separated. She came to life, as if suddenly recalling a brief mention of this type of situation in her employee training manual. She grabbed both of my wrists before I could complete the tear and thrust me back, as if I were mishandling the Scottish Declaration of Independence.
I was stunned.
She examined the tear I had made before slowly completing it herself. To her credit, her tearing skills were far better than mine.
 |
| I typed "Mean Old Lady" into Google and found this surprising likeness to the cashier |
"I need to see the card."
Of all the security measures that have been taken to deter credit card fraud, comparing one's signature on the receipt to the one on back of the card has to be the stupidest. I refuse to sign the backs of cards, much preferring someone check my government issued ID should they bother to check. I automatically handed her both my debit card and my license.
"This card isn't signed."
"I know," I explained. "I prefer someone examine my license."
"Yes, but if the card isn't signed it's not valid. It could be fraudulent."
Huh? Keep in mind, everyone else in the UK simply waves a card in front of a machine and no one checks anything.
"But you can clearly see that the name on the front of the card is the same as the one on my ID."
"It doesn't matter. The rules say if the card is not signed it is not valid." Without further discussion, she voided the transaction, and bid me goodbye.
I went out to my bicycle, found a pen, signed the damn card, and walked back in. I followed
 |
| Otherwise known as a "shoulder" |
She wanted nothing to do with my freshly signed payment, but I persisted, once again showing her my license. Reluctantly, she compared the signature on the license to the signature on the card before declaring they did not match. Trust me, they matched.
"But it's me in the picture on the license!" I couldn't say this without laughing at the overall absurdity of the situation.
She declared that my license picture did not look like me.
"Do you have a razor I could borrow?"
She didn't seem to understand my humor.
 |
| Flat #2 |
Finally a manager came over, heard a brief overview of the situation, and looked at the clerk incredulously. "How much is the purchase?" he asked. It was seven pounds. "You're stressing this guy out on his holiday over a seven pound purchase!" He accepted my payment with an apology. The clerk was pissed. I won.
To be honest, I wasn't stressed at all. I was entertained. I could've paid cash.
Three granola bars and two water bottles later, I started the day's grind. A slow ascent on a rainy day along a crumbly shoulder (which was dubbed a "cycle lane") parallel with a loud highway. A long, boring slog of a day.
It would've been the perfect time to listen to music or a podcast, and drown out the sounds of
 |
| Dancing with the highway |
My rear tire went flat at mile 27. A car buzzed me at mile 34. The rain picked up again at mile 39.
Occasionally there was a glimpse of Scotland's acclaimed beauty, but it was rare.
It was one of those days that I consider a sacrifice when touring. "Get it done. Better stuff is ahead." Reading between the lines, the guidebook puts its tail between its legs in a veiled apology and declares this leg as the most direct route to Glasgow.
 |
| Cliff and Carol |
Fortunately, I did meet some wonderful people. Cliff and Carol, who were touring on a tandem.
Australian Shaun, who touted the wonders of riding while completely stoned.
 |
| Mark Warren, riding for a charity called Event Mobility |
And lastly, and impressive man named Mark Warren, who is completing the same route as I for a charity called Event Mobility. Unlike me, Mark is planning to finish his entire ride in only eleven days, where each day requires him to ride for more than 100 miles. His supportive family rides ahead of him and sets up camp, where they offered me dinner.
I didn't want to impose, and instead hoped there was a local pub nearby.
But in Abington, there's nothing.
 |
| First bad meal in the U.K. |
Except for a Burger King at a highway rest area.
And for the first time this trip, I had a bad meal, which seemed a fitting end to the day.
I was, however, lucky enough to find a bottle of cider to bring back to camp. The crispy chicken sandwich I ordered wasn't enough to fulfill me. But that wasn't a big deal.
I still had three granola bars and two bottles of water to wash them down.
P.S.
If you haven't figured this out by the time you reach Abington coming from any direction,
chances are you aren't around to read it.
If there's one thing we can agree on as a global society, can't it be which side of the road to drive on?
Shame on you for buying bottled water MrQ . Taps are free!
ReplyDelete