So today was never gonna go well, maybe because some idiot has been extending our distance quota on each day (Yep … Jeremy Clarkson is with us) AND today the elastic snapped. Things started bad with some bad assed up and downs and then got worse as we entered the forest of Bowland. Basically a brutal 25km of leg breaking … morale supping evilness.
The road (although very pretty and nice scenery) was a 45 degrees .. wall of death or a 45 degrees decent of crazyness. with the wet weather half the corners were a river. All we could do was limp the bikes though the metropolis of Manchester / Liverpool and finished at Runcorn – where our fantastic driver picked us up and took us to Chester for the stop over.
We booked ourselves into the local pub quiz where we realised we have no chance (although Quizzy McQuizFace as a team name hopefully got a laugh) although not as much as the question…
“How many Toes does a camel have ?”
After an entree of various flavoured crisps / chips / whatever you call em in you country we were so hungry we walked 5k to a local shop and ordered midnight Kebabs (chilly sauce required) We introduced our driver to the custom of eating 5 bites of the garbage and then posting it into the first bin you can find….
(I woke early …. to spend some time in the bathroom “contemplating todays ride”)
Salads out, and kebabs in.. hardcore cycling diet in full effect. | finally getting things sorted on the nutritional front. you are welcome. Now look , i like a good kebab at the right moment and was this ever the right moment. those flavored crisps above were the most awful blend of potatoes since the famine. Who takes a potato and thinks you know what would be better — lets make this taste like a mushroom/beet vegetable medley — but since the pub couldn’t figure out how to make food and focused their Q&A on obscure pop song artists from the 1980’s and camel toe the team was flagging.
So leave it to the kebab man to rally the spirits and stay open late to serve the leftover kebab “meat” into some poor excuses to contract salmonella at midnight. Apparently the defense for this was to only take of few bites and ditch it in the vain hope that only inserting the tip would somehow avoid the consequences that we all knew would follow. Surprisingly no ghosts visited in the night, no cupboard rattling or eerie footsteps — also no women–because the stench and thunder that was firing out all night and morning could have kept Lord Nelson himself at bay.
So far this is setting up just like watching England play football. A fast start, a good moment or three that you hope is more than it is, and then the slow steady decline into madness– but bloody meaty fueled goodness. We have finally left the salad days behind us.