St. Helens to Glasson to Chapel Stiles

August 13, 2010

Also known as Friday, the fucking thirteenth. You know what? It's all beginning to make sense. The hills, the miles, the rain, the godforsaken headwind, the getting lost, the mean people, the full campsites...

I'll start at the beginning, because it crept up slowly, this teary-eyed, miserable exhaustion. This morning I woke up to the sound of rain splattering against the tarp of our tent, and not wanting to battle the elements, I laid in my sleeping bag, turning every five minutes like a pig on a spit. I know that I've been laying on my air mattress too long when the switch from back, to side, to front, to side, and back whips my sleeping bag into a tangle and each position hurts just as much as the last.

Once the rain stopped, we packed up and left without breakfast. Immediately, we joined the National Cycle Route No. 6, and the small blue and red signs led us onto a rails-to-trails cycle path into Lancaster. For seven miles, we pedaled along stretches of beach and river at low tide. The sand spread out in a smooth, flat plain, and little streams and rivulets of water beat their path to the Irish Sea.

In Lancaster, we hopped on a series of cycle paths and eventually found our way to a little Co-operative in a residential area. By now, it was already 11 o'clock, so we settled on food for a brunch and a late afternoon snack. Piling our food on the back of the bike, we cycled out of town and onto a canal path where we stopped to eat. Sitting on a bench overlooking the canal and a field of cows, we ate sandwiches and salt and vinegar chips. For dessert, of course, we ate flapjacks.

Back on the tow path, we rode 6 miles alongside the canal, under bridges, and alongside sweet seaside villages. The homes that bordered the canals had beautiful, impressive gardens, and many of them had parallel docks that looked like up-scale porches with tables and chairs to sit and drink tea.

Still following route No. 6, we turned off the canal and descended into a village and then along more swaths of beaches at low tide. The scenery was lovely, and to the Northeast, the landscape dipped and folded into dark blue-green mountains. It was at this point that I asked Joshua how far we had come, and realizing that we had only traversed about 14 miles, I began to notice that - oh yeah - there's this enormous headwind.

Just when I was getting a bit disheartened by the wind buffeting my face, when we turned inland and began climbing, and no, the wind did not let up. Still feeling somewhat perky, I tried to appreciate the lovely villages we were passing. Most of them contained the name 'Yealand,' and once again, we were back in stone country. The homes were grey and the gardens were bursting with flowers.

Past the Yealand Hills, we cycled through an enormous estate overlooking a peaceful, lazy river and an idyllic field spotted with sheep and stone arch bridges. In Milnthorpe, we followed our cycle route through a bustling tourist village, but within minutes, we were abruptly back in the country, climbing ever narrower, ever steeper country rodes. The 12 mile stretch into Kendal was particularly hilly, and the wind had picked up even more. It got to the point where we would sweat and grunt our way up the hills only to have to pedal back down the hills against our stiff headwind.

In Kendal, I was already feeling very weary indeed. We stopped for our late afternoon snack of honey roasted nuts and strawberries, and we looked at the map, hoping that we were nearly at Windmere. Back on the path, we got a little bit lost going through Kendal, but we quickly regained our bearings and headed West out of town, still on our cycle route No. 6. Climbing a few more hills, we saw signs for Windmere that promised a 6 mile journey.

Although the journey was hilly, the signs made good on their promises, and we descended into the town of Windmere just in time to stop at the tourist office before it closed. The man at the counter was very helpful, and he pointed out an excellent hike that began in Ambleside and ended in Rydal, just four more miles up the road. In Rydal, he said, we could even find a campsite, and in Ambleside, we would find a grocery store to stock up.

The bike ride from Windmere to Ambleside followed the lake and a cycle route, and as a result, it passed quickly. In Ambleside, we pedaled past dozens of outdoor gear outlets and boutiques targeted towards the athletically inclined, and when we found the Co-operative, we couldn't resist a peek inside one particular outlet that bragged '50 percent off everything inside!!!'

From Ambleside, we climbed another mile into the small village of Rydal, and feeling absolutely spent, we turned off on a steep side road to find Rydal Hall, our next campsite. Pulling into the parking lot of a big stone manor, we looked skeptically inside, and I wandered in to request a site. At the office, the woman behind the counter listened to my plea and said no, they were too full. When I asked her pathetically if there were any sites nearby and explained that we were on bikes, she helpfully responded no, there were none. When I looked like I was about to cry, she told me to wait. She might be able to find something if our tent was very, very small.

After dealing with a couple more campers, she came out to me just as Joshua approached. She looked at me accusingly, and said, 'you've multiplied.' Leaning toward her co-worker, she said, 'these two are looking for a campsite.' Her co-worker, a very posh looking man, gave us a once-over and said, 'absolutely not.'

Walking out of the very fancy manor, I began crying. After 48 miles of hills and stiff wind, I was absolutely exhausted. Joshua, on the other hand, was pissed. Apparently, when he had tried to enter the manor, the same man that had said 'absolutely not' had shook his head at him from inside the door, and when someone had moved to let Joshua in, the man had said, 'don't let him in.' The other man did anyway, and when Joshua came in the door, the man rolled his eyes. After the whole incident, Joshua was mad enough to spit, and as we were pulling out of the driveway, he did. Right on their big fancy sign. I would have been completely embarrassed if anyone had been looking or if I weren't already crying, but as it was, there was no one there to watch me cry or watch my husband spit.

Taking out our map, we looked for another campsite. All the others were on the opposite side of Ambleside, so we pedaled back to town. Heading onto another road, Joshua tried to encourage me by saying, 'only one mile more hon, and we'll find someplace so much better than Snotty Rydal Hall.'

Well, he was very sweet, but he was also very wrong, and we proceeded to get very, very lost on very, very hilly roads. Unable to find the first two campsites listed on the map, we finally pulled into Braysbrown Farm in Chapel Stile at 58 miles. Apparently, Braysbrown Farm is some kind of tent village, and in a large valley between big, beautiful mountains, there are probably 300 tents.

Just as we unpacked our panniers and began setting up our tent, it began to rain, and our tent got very damp. Thankfully, there were showers here, and while I wandered off to clean off the grime that had so repelled Rydal Hall, Joshua cooked up our rice, veggies, and tika masala sauce. Once we had stuffed our faces, we ate half of a triple-layer walnut cake and a whole bag of crisps. While we ate, little tiny bugs swarmed over our heads, landed on any bare flesh, and bit.

Lying in our tent right now, I'm listening to a very much alive tent city. There are dogs barking, babies crying, couples flirting, internationals arguing, and a family playing soccer right next to our tent. I'm absolutely exhausted, but I'm not getting my hopes up about a good nights sleep. I just pray nobody snores.

August 12, 2010

We woke up and packed on our last morning in St. Helen's. For breakfast, we ate Catherine's beautiful spread of fruit, bagels, and tea, and we talked about what's next. At 10:15, we pulled out of the driveway and waved good bye to Catherine. She and Donal were such beautiful hosts :)

From St. Helen's, we quickly hopped on a B road and immediately began to climb. Within a couple of miles, we reached a hill at 17 percent grade, and pulling off our rain jackets, we sweat it to the top. By this point, we were already completely disoriented by the curvy, unlabeled roads, and we plunged forward, hoping we would run into something we might recognize.

In one town, we pedaled across the M6, and then, thinking we had gone the wrong way, pedaled back again. A nice man in his car stopped and walked back to us to ask if we were lost, and when we confessed that we were, he gave us directions. He seemed very envious of our journey, even if we were lost.

Heading towards Shrivington on our way to Preston, we again got fabulously lost, biking 4 miles out of the way down a massive hill. To find our trail again, we were forced to retrace our steps (and I can tell you, there is nothing worse than really knowing just how big the hill is because you've just hurtled down it).

Finally, we found our route and proceeded to climb B roads into Preston. The headwind had picked up, and by now, it had taken us a very long time just to cycle 20 miles. In Preston, we wandered, a little confused, through the busy streets, and two very kind gentlemen stopped to ask us if we were lost and point us on our way. Once we found the road headed towards, Garstang, we allowed ourselves to break for lunch. We had covered 32 miles, and when I went inside to see what might catch my fancy, I selected a huge, calorie-laden cheese and onion pasty. It was hot and absolutely dripping with cheese.

Sitting on the brick wall outside the Co-operative, we stuffed our faces and appreciated a little bit of sun breaking through the clouds. The wind, however, did not let up, and knowing that we still had about 20 miles to go, we hopped back on our bikes.

Following the A6 out of Preston, we were treated to a nice shoulder into Garstang, 8 miles down the road. Here, we took a small break to chat with two other men on bicycles. The first man was pretty young, and judging by his gear (fully waterproofed panniers - front and back, cycling singlet, cycling leggings, weird cycling sleeves, and a rockin' bike), he was also a pretty serious cyclist. The second man was dressed in a cotton polo shirt with a rugby emblem embroidered on his breast pocket. His face had the seriously ruddy, sunburned look people get when they spend decades in the sun and wind, and his bike, while nice, was pannier-less. The first man, it turns out, was also cycling from Lands End to John O'Groats, but he had started 6 days ago. He's taken one day off, but in 5 days, he's managed to cover nearly 500 miles. He shared with us that we had all just passed the home of the man who holds the E2E record of 41 hours. Apparently, after he cycled E2E, he grew weary of cycling and took up running. On his first marathon, he ran 2:29.

The first man was curious if we had seen any other E2E-ers, and saying that we had only seen a couple, the second man shared that in his trip around the world, he only met one person doing the same thing in the three years it had taken him.

Excuse me? Around the world? Yessir. Mr. Ruddy faced man biked from the top of Canada down to Tierra del Fuego, and when he was done, he jumped a plane to Australia where he again biked the length, and then he went to China. When the two asked us when we had started and how many miles we were averaging per day, we were a bit vague: oh, end of July. Around 50. We also made sure to mention that we were taking a round about route and stopping to see friends and family along the way.

Knowing frauds when they saw them, the men smiled at us sympathetically and zipped off at a 20 mph clip into a big black thundercloud. Donning our rain jackets, we followed at half the pace. Outside of Garstang, we turned off on a small country road, and after a mile, the sky let loose. Although it rained very hard and it was very, very cold, the wet soon let up, and we stopped to buy a half dozen eggs, broccoli, and tomatoes from a farm stand in the rolling hills south of Lancaster. To the West, the green fields sprawled out towards the sea, and small inlets showed the smooth sands of low tide. After a few more miles, we found our turn off for our campsite.

Although the two cyclists hadn't been all that impressed, the campsite owner thought we were crazy and welcomed us to camp anywhere in the field. Setting up camp quickly, we changed into warmer clothes, and I started to cook our meager dinner. After we had left Preston, we had meant to stop at the next grocery store to buy food for breakfast and dinner, but we hadn't found a single shop along the way. Luckily, the farm shop had had some food, but it looked like we were going to be a little bit hungry tonight.

After we had eaten, we crawled into the tent and stayed up reading. The only other tent in the field was another small one like ours, and apparently, its inhabitants were two very young teenagers. They didn't have a vehicle, so I couldn't imagine how they had gotten there, but they couldn't have been older than 16. Anyway, we fell asleep listening to their shrill giggles and slurpy kissing noises, wondering where in god's name their parents were.