The Longest Bike Ride
The towns of High Peak Junction and Dowlow are joined by a seventeen and a half mile long line. This largest of the large chalk line stretches over peaks and moors and dodges between trees, streaking past farms and ice cream factories. It is the countryside ideal summed up within seventeen and a half miles of railway-cum-cycle path. This pathway is known as The High Peak Trail and when I was 14 I rode it on a GT Palomar bicycle with one of my friends.
So what? Why am I telling you this now, nearly ten years later? This bike journey has always stayed in my mind and not for the immediate good reasons normally associated with a nice amble through beautiful countryside. When I think of riding a bicycle I normally think of the discomfort; the uncomfortably damp back and the greasy hair, the flies that decide to check for tonsilitis from the inside and the runny, hayfever eyes. I remember the bicycle seat that always finds an uncomfortable place to prod, but most of all I remember how bloody knackering cycling is!
What I remember most about cycling the High Peak Trail is how terrible it was. The whole seventeen miles is just so deceiving. I'd done seventeen miles on a bike before and loved it but the problem with this cycle journey is that it is all up hill. A shallow incline is just so deceiving and I always seem to pedal really well to begin with but realise quite quickly that my legs are cramping and that I can't breathe. I remember especially seeing my friend collapse after about 6 miles, collapse in frustration and tears. In my exhausted state I laughed out loud. I guffawed in his face as he was ready to give up and go home. It was a very funny sight.
We kept going, not really talking, in the hope that the finish line would be decorated with flags and fanfares. We imagine fireworks and a washed-up rockband doing a tribute act. Guess what was at the end. There was no fanfare, no wookie roaring to a beautifully orchestrated celebration. There was no sign. There wasn't even a wall. Instead there stood a gate. On our side was the white chalk line that had been enslaving us adn on the other, an open field stretching towards Buxton. Beyond that was The Cat and Fiddle Pub. Beyond that was Macclesfield, Liverpool, Wales, Ireland, The Atlantic. An entire World waited at the end of our tiny 17 mile bike ride.
I am nearly standing at that gate again. Instead of a seventeen mile bike ride, I now have four years of Chemistry behind me. Four years of poorly attempted lab reports, of scribbled problem sheets of crammed exams and of rushed labs. I've been less than a day away from sacking it. That uphill section around second year was difficult and although I fell off and got a couple of grazes in the form of fails, I got back on and kept riding, determined to feel the glory at the end.
It's been a fun and tiresome trip and I can't wait to finish. My next point to stop it will be that radio post in the distance, I'm going to try and get work experience there. Who cares? I'll have fun regardless. There's a whole world out there to visit and a wealth of ideas to dream up.
So what? Why am I telling you this now, nearly ten years later? This bike journey has always stayed in my mind and not for the immediate good reasons normally associated with a nice amble through beautiful countryside. When I think of riding a bicycle I normally think of the discomfort; the uncomfortably damp back and the greasy hair, the flies that decide to check for tonsilitis from the inside and the runny, hayfever eyes. I remember the bicycle seat that always finds an uncomfortable place to prod, but most of all I remember how bloody knackering cycling is!
What I remember most about cycling the High Peak Trail is how terrible it was. The whole seventeen miles is just so deceiving. I'd done seventeen miles on a bike before and loved it but the problem with this cycle journey is that it is all up hill. A shallow incline is just so deceiving and I always seem to pedal really well to begin with but realise quite quickly that my legs are cramping and that I can't breathe. I remember especially seeing my friend collapse after about 6 miles, collapse in frustration and tears. In my exhausted state I laughed out loud. I guffawed in his face as he was ready to give up and go home. It was a very funny sight.
We kept going, not really talking, in the hope that the finish line would be decorated with flags and fanfares. We imagine fireworks and a washed-up rockband doing a tribute act. Guess what was at the end. There was no fanfare, no wookie roaring to a beautifully orchestrated celebration. There was no sign. There wasn't even a wall. Instead there stood a gate. On our side was the white chalk line that had been enslaving us adn on the other, an open field stretching towards Buxton. Beyond that was The Cat and Fiddle Pub. Beyond that was Macclesfield, Liverpool, Wales, Ireland, The Atlantic. An entire World waited at the end of our tiny 17 mile bike ride.
I am nearly standing at that gate again. Instead of a seventeen mile bike ride, I now have four years of Chemistry behind me. Four years of poorly attempted lab reports, of scribbled problem sheets of crammed exams and of rushed labs. I've been less than a day away from sacking it. That uphill section around second year was difficult and although I fell off and got a couple of grazes in the form of fails, I got back on and kept riding, determined to feel the glory at the end.
It's been a fun and tiresome trip and I can't wait to finish. My next point to stop it will be that radio post in the distance, I'm going to try and get work experience there. Who cares? I'll have fun regardless. There's a whole world out there to visit and a wealth of ideas to dream up.
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