The American Invasion

Day: 14 (Hebden Bridge to Harrogate) and day 15 (rest day)

Average Speed: 7 mph

Distance: 35.5 miles

Distance Cycled Total: 676.9 miles 

Feet climbed: 2,979 ; 33,307.9 total

Difficulty level: Very challenging

Window Art on Today's Route

When I decided to tour the U.K. this year, barely two weeks before leaving, I immediately sent a message to Andy and Tracey, cyclists I had met while crossing Missouri almost exactly three years ago. They were going the opposite way, and I credit the one night we stayed together in a curious (and cheap) hotel as a turning point in that trip- their humor and positive attitude bolstering me through the oppressive heat and humidity associated with Missouri's July. 

At the time, I couldn't even recall the name of the end point of the trip ("...something O'Groat" I had written).

Andy replied immediately:

It's true that they are on the way to Scotland. However, one can argue that pretty much everywhere in England is on the way to Scotland if you're moving from south to north. The town of Harrogate wasn't on my route, but that doesn't matter much here. It's been rather fun zigzagging my way along rather than taking the direct route.

I entered the details into a new app I'm using called Kamoot as an alternative to Google Maps. I'd been told it provides a more cycle-friendly experience. 



The app warned me before I set off: THIS ROUTE IS FOR EXPERTS. 

I shrugged that warning off. Pshaw!, I thought, Even if it's a bit tough, it's only 35 miles!

Oops. 

Very confused goat in road

"Experience" and "Expertise" are two words that shouldn't be confused. I have no problem calling myself an experienced touring cyclist, but I sure as hell ain't no expert. The day's terrain on the hottest day of the year here served as a not-so-gentle reminder of that. 

I'd describe the first climb out of Hebden Bridge as "wonderfully brutal." After all, I still had energy, and it was a delightful change from the canal towpaths I'd been following, providing a remarkable view of the valley. Everything that followed? Just plain brutal. Even the goat who caused a minor traffic jam was having difficulty finding its footing on the relentlessly steep hills (or perhaps it's that goats' hooves just weren't made for pavement). 

Andy takes a pic of my arrival

Five miles in and I sent Andy a text, changing my ETA to later in the day.

It's always easy to look back on something you did and romanticize it. I mean... I feel fine now! And as soon as I saw Andy waving from the street corner, dressed (as always) to the nines in a waistcoat, tie, and porkpie hat, everything miserable about the day's ride instantly vanished. 

But if I'm being honest, I'm pretty sure that ride was awful. Certainly the least enjoyable of the trip so far. 

Initially I'd been leery when my hosts encouraged me to take a day's rest and enjoy their hometown. I don't really do that when cycle touring. I always worry about losing whatever momentum I have. It's the sacrifice one makes on this type of trip: You see everything and nothing at the same time, often sacrificing sight-seeing in favor of a brief and general overview. 

With a freshly pulled calf muscle and two of the most entertaining people I've ever met eager to show me around, it wasn't hard to convince me. I'm pretty sure Tracey would've sabotaged my bike had I insisted on riding the next day. 

And for the first time ever, I was a true tourist, enjoying every second of a full rest day.

Had I continued on, I would've missed:

1) The Club.

Andy plays bartender at The Harrogate Club

Andy belongs to a "Gentlemen's Club" (no... not that kind of Gentlemen's Club), where members are welcome anytime to enjoy the solitude of a posh and refined environment. Want to try your hand at snooker? Head over to the Harrogate Club! Need to unwind with a snifter of brandy after a long day at work? The Harrogate Club is the place to be! Members have their own keys, tend their own bar, and have their run of place, and as long as everyone respects the environment, it's yours to do with as you please. I quite like the concept, though perhaps I shouldn't have worn flip-flops.

Ruins of the Knaresborough Castle

2) The Knaresborough Castle

Tracey and I took a long morning walk to the nearby village of Knaresborough, which features the ruins of a castle built in the 12th century. I've found that astonishing views and attractive towns are the rule in England rather than the exception. After climbing the steps up to the landmark, we rewarded ourselves with an 11 AM beer... because... you know... it's a rest day. 






3) Tea at Betty's

Betty's Tea Room is a well-oiled machine of a restaurant, renowned for its "Cream Tea." It's a bustling business with locations in several of England's more refined cities. I'd seen cream tea advertised ever since entering Devon, and I assumed it was simply tea served with cream rather than milk. Cream, however, refers to the array of pastries that accompany the tea. It still makes no sense to me- why they'd call it "cream tea"- the tea itself is not being modified at all and it is certainly not the main feature. We debated this at length. I think I won. 









4) The Walking Tour

By chance, a friend of Tracey and Andy's was giving a free walking tour of the city after we finished our lunch. With a polished charisma, our tour guide, Harry, explained the history of Harrogate as a destination for the wealthy to enjoy its many hydrotherapy centers of the 1800s. Today, we'd laugh at people's desire to cleanse themselves in sulfur water or experience electric shock as someone dropped the equivalent of an electric toaster into your bath, but back then? It was all the rage. 







5) The Dinosaurs

As tomorrow is Carnival in Harrogate, the town is in preparation for all kinds of events. And a group of remarkable actors in intricately designed costumes decided to give an impromptu preview. All of the town's pedestrians were in shock as five dinosaurs and a witch paraded around the town centre, both delighting and horrifying children in an impressive stampede. It was nearly impossible to figure out how a human being fit into the costume and operated its neck, tail, head, and jaws at the same time. Really... check out that video. 

While I name these as five highlights during my brief stay, the true highlight was simply enjoying the company of two wonderful, caring people with whom I shared an amazing experience. 

Just as when I met them in Missouri, there was no shortage of conversation and laughter. 

They even adorned my bed with a teddy bear as a reminder of the creepy infestation of dolls that surrounded us at The Butterfly Inn, where we'd last met. 

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And a calf massage to end the night? Don't ask me twice. 

When I'd met them in America, I was nearly halfway through my journey, and very much in need of an emotional boost to get me through the rest. 

Very little is different this time. I'm halfway to John O'Groats. And as I prepare to head out into the rain, it will be with a smile. 

Thanks, Andy and Tracey.

I can't wait to cross paths again. 














P.S.

Nothing like a little bathroom poetry to lighten your day,

though there seems to be a bit of debate as to what the final word should be.

What Are You Trying to Say?

Day: 13 (Manchester to Hebden Bridge)

Average Speed: 9 mph

Distance: 28.1 miles

Distance Cycled Total: 641.4 miles 

Feet climbed: 780.8 ; 30,328.9 total

Difficulty level: Very, very easy... with a 1/2 mile torturous climb at the end

Signage on the bulletin board in my hostel

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Of course," the young bartender replied. 

Horses on my route today.

"Is it difficult to understand me when I talk?"

I often wonder this, since the language can be so difficult to comprehend with the accents that grow thicker as I head north. People often assume I am Dutch, or even Irish when they hear me talk. I don't quite get that either. "You don't sound like they do on the American telly!" a woman had told me back in Cornwall. "And I watch a lot of American politics. You don't sound like them either!"

Thank God for that. 

"I can understand you just fine," the bartender said. 

View of Hebden Bridge from the hostel on the hill

I had just finished the day's unremarkable short ride. After showering and finding accommodations in the cleanest hostel I've ever been in- where shoes and meat products aren't allowed beyond the front door (a severe contrast to the rathole I found in Manchester)- I rode back down the steep hill into the center of Hebden Bridge. A few lazy pedals around the "fourth funkiest town in the world" (no idea what the first three are), and I decided on The Stubbing Wharf for dinner- an 18th century canal-side inn I'd passed on the way into town. 

"The beer is cheap and the food is good!" a diner had called out when I was initially passing.

Sold. 

That's when I met John. 

Lisa, me, and John

He noticed my accent as I ordered a pint, and the Usual Questions began. Before my beer was poured, John had paid for it and demanded I join him and his girlfriend out on the patio. 

The thing is, I could only understand about every fourth word John was saying. 

I'd asked if he'd ever been to the States. 

"I... [unintelligible]... Vancouver... [unintelligible]... then down to Reno... [unintelligible]... bear.. [unintelligible]... cubs... [unintelligible]... I had no idea they weren't friendly!" 

I nodded and laughed at the correct times, but had no real grasp on what John was saying. I'm pretty sure he flew into Canada then decided to try and trap a bear in Reno, but was unsuccessful and perhaps attacked. Was it the thick Yorkshire accent making comprehension difficult? Or perhaps a few too many pints of Fosters?

Today's headline in The Sun

The same sort of thing happens when I talk with Jamie. I have to ask him to repeat every third sentence he speaks. It's both entertaining and exhausting.

"What 'ya think 'o Trump?" John asked, eyes bulging. 

Silence as he stared at me.

I hate this question, as I try to avoid polarizing conversation that never seems to matter in the long-run. 

Instead, I countered. "What do you think of Boris Johnson?" Though England's newest P.M. is certainly in the headlines today, I haven't heard any discussion of him whatsoever.

"What an idiot! He... [unintelligible] and Brexit is [unintelligible]... so Trump is [unintelligible] and World War II we... [unintelligible]... Churchill needed... [unintelligible]... Dan get this American another beer [clear as a bell]!"

Looking to change the course of the conversation, I asked John about the charming town of Hebden Bridge.

"IT'S FULL OF LESBIANS!" he shouted. His girlfriend Lisa told him to quiet down. "What?"

Pride banner in town centre

he said, "It's true! It's the lesbian capital of the U.K.! Probably the world! I don't care a'tall... people can do whatever they want! I'm just saying... they're always walking their dogs!"

John seemed prone to dramatics and exaggeration, but I fact-checked this later, and he was correct. A quick search confirms this unequivocally. Pride flags fly proudly throughout the town and shops cater to all types of lifestyles. A banner promoting Happy Valley Pride Week: An Eclectic, Alternative, an Inclusive Week-Long Festival for Everyone was strung in the town centre, and outré cabaret acts were promoted on street corners.

Pic doesn't do justice, but the lights at night
surround the town in the hills

Tucked in a valley, it's a beautiful town with a lively, warm, and welcoming personality. At night, the soft glow of street lamps decorate the surrounding steep hills where residences are embedded. It almost looks like a Christmas tree. I appreciated this as I hiked back up to the hostel after John had called it quits for the night. 

"I'm... completely... pissed," John eventually said, as if suddenly realizing his drunken state. Several times, he'd invited me to ditch the hostel to stay at his house for the night. I certainly appreciated the offer- and probably would've accepted had I not already checked in- but it's rather a good thing I didn't.

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Though a resident here for the past dozen years, he didn't seem to capture the essence of the town. 

The hostel on the other hand, run by a woman named "Tree" has six different recycling bins, funky artwork, and pamphlets promoting acceptance of one another. 

I like it here. 

Their message is easy to comprehend. 

P.S.

I can only assume that someone asked a five-year-old to name these towns.

Chasing Jamie Norton... Again

Days: 11 and 12 (Stafford to Peaks District) / (Peaks District to Manchester)

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, Loki, and Me

"Sure you got it in 'ya?"

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. 

“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.

Peaks District. Lots of peaks.

I told him it shouldn't be a problem.  

“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. 

Only took me 'til Kansas. 

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

Heading into the Peak District

home city. 

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.

Oh! A canal towpath! Single track! Tree roots! 

“TURN LEFT” 

On a major highway? You sure?

“SHARP RIGHT”

What’s this? A rustic overgrown horse trail?

“SLIGHT LEFT”

Perfect.

Ahhh… beautiful groomed cycleway through the forest. Sometimes Google gets it right. 

“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. 

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. 

The Peak District is indeed aptly named. 

Vicky and Jamie

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.

And then I descended. 

It was an Appalachian descent. Quick. Sharp. Steep. But fun. 

Loki- a shiba inu pup

Sure, per technology, my estimated time of arrival was 4:30 PM.

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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There was barbecue. There was beer. And there was nowhere else I would’ve rather been. 

“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.”

P.S. 

Hey, Jenni! Been a while since I've done a crossword. Getting rusty... little help?