We sat down by a wall and tried to decant some of the Lucozade energy powder into our water bottles. The wind had picked up and the white powder blew all around us, like we were part of a very ugly snow globe.
The door was opened a few minutes later by a large body-builder sized man, wearing a running vest and shorts. He had a well tanned face and he gave us a stern look, as though he was about to beat the crap out of us. His running vest was a souvenir t-shirt for the Coniston 14 road race in 1998. I liked that he, along with the rest of the town (North West in Bloom - 2001), was hanging on to the memories of the glory days.
‘Can I help you with anything, gentlemen?’ he asked in a threatening manner.
‘Sorry, we’re just leaving. We’re just trying to fill up these energy drinks,’ said Ben.
‘Oh, is that what it is?’ he laughed. ‘The ladies inside could see you on the CCTV and they thought you were doing something with drugs. They asked me to come and check up on you.’
‘Oh no. Sorry. It’s just Lucozade, I promise,’ said Ben.
‘No worries. It’s just that being a school and all we have to check up on these things. I think they thought you were going to try dealing to the kids.’ He stepped from the doorway and walked towards us with his arm outstretched and a warm smile on his face.
‘The name’s Mr Smiddy. I’m the head of PE. You can call me Martin.’
‘Thanks, Mr Smiddy. I mean Martin. Sorry to be a nuisance, we’ll be on our way,’ I said.
‘You take your time. No rush. So, they said you wanted to look in our lost property? What’s the deal, are you homeless or something?’
‘No, not quite. We’re cycling the entire length of the country without spending any money, and I’m on the look out for a pair of shorts, instead of these suit trousers.’
‘That sounds pretty crazy. How come you didn’t just wear shorts from the start?’
‘We didn’t have anything at the start. Just a pair of boxer shorts. We didn’t even have bikes,’ said Ben.
‘You’re kidding?’ he said. ‘So you managed to blag all of this stuff from people along the way?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s amazing. You guys are mad.’ He shook his head, unable to take it all in. ‘I can sort you out with some shorts. Come with me. We’ll see what else we can find for you both. You guys crack me up.’
He led us down a few corridors and into the PE changing rooms. It was the first time I had been in a school changing room in ten years and it was pleasing to discover the familiar smell of sweat, mud and Lynx deodorant.
Mr Smiddy unlocked the store cupboard and rootled around inside. (Incidentally, the word ‘rootle’ doesn’t get used enough these days). After he had finished rootling, he emerged with his arms full of clothing and other random items.
‘The only shorts I’ve found are for kids and they won’t fit you. But don’t worry I’ll sort you out with some. Is any of this of use?’ he said, emptying the contents onto one of the benches.
Never before had two grown men been so excited at the sight of a pile of other people’s neglected clothing. Mr Smiddy watched on with his arms folded, delighted to see our excitement.
‘A belt. Amazing,’ I said.
‘Wow, a Frodsham School t-shirt. Looks kinda retro.’
‘Here you go, Ben. Sunglasses. You’ve been complaining about getting flies in your eyes.’
‘You are a legend, Mr Smiddy. Can we really have these?’ asked Ben.
‘Of course, help yourself to any of that. None of it has been claimed all year. I’ll go and try and get you some shorts.’
Mr Smiddy (it seemed wrong calling a PE teacher by his first name, especially as we were in the school changing rooms), reappeared a few minutes later carrying a pair of the skimpiest running shorts I had ever seen. They were made from a silky blue material and were slit at the sides to allow full leg movement.
‘Wow, thanks. Those look... errr... airy,’ I said. ‘Where did you get them from?’
‘These are mine, but you’re welcome to have them.’
‘That’s very kind, but I don’t want to take your own clothes. I can try and get a pair of shorts from somewhere else.’ I should point out that this was a different pair of shorts to the ones he was wearing. I don’t want you to think he had whipped off his shorts in front of us there and then.
‘Trust me, I think my kids would be delighted to see the back of these. Go on, try them on.’
‘I think I’ll have to try them on later. I’m… errr… going commando at the moment.’
‘You haven’t got any pants, either?’
‘Well, we’ve got one pair each, but mine are airing at the moment.’
‘Pah, you two are something else,’ he snorted.
Frodsham was paradise compared to what we were faced with next. Shortly after leaving the town, we joined the horrendous Runcorn to Widnes road which is basically a motorway that it is legal to cycle along. More vehicles passed us over the next few miles than the entire rest of our journey combined. I didn’t count them all, so I can’t be sure of this fact, but I think it is extremely likely.
There was a hard shoulder which should have made things safer, but this was littered with car fragments and broken glass. We thought we were over the worst of it, but then we saw the intimidating sight of Runcorn Bridge. The bridge is officially called ‘The Silver Jubilee Bridge’ in an attempt to make it sound picturesque and quaint. It’s not. It’s absolutely terrifying.
The bridge itself would look quite attractive, if they moved to a different part of the world, painted it a different colour and closed it to everyone but cyclists. It is, however, pale green, situated in the middle of a sprawling mass of industry and used by over 80,000 motorists a day.
The bridge was opened in 1961 to cross the River Mersey and the Manchester Ship Canal. It is the only route across, although swimming did seem preferable. We arrived at the bridge at the peak of rush hour and pulled over to the side of the road to plan our attack.
The northbound side of the road, which we were on, had an extremely narrow strip of pavement, no more than a foot wide, which seemed to serve no purpose whatsoever. The Falcon would have been sleek and narrow enough to glide along this, but had Ben attempted to cycle along it on The Horse, his handlebars would have taken up half of the left hand lane, too.
Our route book mentioned a ‘pedestrian walkway’ on the opposite side of the bridge, which was just visible. It was a tantalisingly wide pavement protected from the road by a metal crash barrier. The only problem being that between us and it were four lanes of relentless traffic.
Remember the computer game Frogger? Well, attempting to cross this stretch of road, at rush hour, with our bikes would have been harder than the final level of Frogger. And we didn’t have the luxury of having three lives. There was no choice but to stay on the side of the road that we were on, and just go for it.
‘Right, after this one,’ said Ben, half-aboard The Horse. ‘No, no, wait, after this one… No hang on, ready? After this one.’ And so it went until eventually we both bounded onto our bikes in perfect synchronised fashion.
What followed was about five of the scariest minutes of my life. The lanes of traffic on the bridge are so narrow that there is no room for cars to give cyclists any freedom. On two occasions Ben’s handlebars were clipped by passing vehicles. We lost count of the number of angry drivers who beeped their horns at us as though we were a real nuisance to them. We kept our eyes focused firmly on the road ahead and cycled as fast as we could.
Once clear of the bridge, we were greeted with more views of picturesque chemical plants and car-wrecking yards.
After another ten miles, the route eventually left the A-roads and re-entered the countryside. We passed through the villages of Eccleston and Crank as the wind started to pick up, and the landscape became more undulating.
Not since Cornwall had we had to dismount from our bikes because of a hill, but shortly before the town of Skelme
rsdale, Ben admitted defeat. I took this as a welcome invitation to walk, too.
‘It’s my calf muscles. They’re really aching today,’ said Ben. ‘What’s your excuse?’
‘I don’t need an excuse. I just can’t be bothered to cycle up this hill.’
‘That doesn’t sound like you. Normally you like to suffer.’
‘Yeah, well we’ve suffered enough for the past few hours.’
On reaching the top, we pulled into a field and collapsed in the grass for a break. Surprisingly, it was one of the most scenic views of the entire trip. We had a sweeping cornfield directly below us, which led to more fields and then in the far distance the murky sprawl of Runcorn and Widnes. The distant hum of traffic and industry was overpowered by the chorus of birds, and during the 15 minutes we lay there, not a single car passed.
‘I’m ready for bed,’ said Ben.
‘Me too.’
As if to taunt our bed-ready souls, the first building that we came across, just a few minutes later, was a very upmarket looking hotel – The Lancashire Manor Hotel.
‘Thank you, God. Look, it’s destiny,’ said Ben, pulling over.
‘It’s a bit out of our league, isn’t it? We’ve not stayed in anything like this so far.’
‘Worth a try isn’t it? They might have staff quarters or something that we can sleep in.’
The inside of the hotel didn’t match up to the charm of the exterior, but it was still far superior to anything else we had stayed in. The reception was empty, but a lady appeared from the back room after we rang the bell, and we gave her our now well-rehearsed speech. I won’t bore you with it again.
‘I’m sorry, we can’t offer you a room, I’m afraid. We can offer you a discount, but the hotel is part of a chain and we can’t just give free rooms like that.’
‘You don’t have to tell them,’ joked Ben. ‘We’ll even clean the room afterwards. You won’t even know we’d been there.’
‘I’m sorry. I can’t help. We wouldn’t be able to let you do any work either, I’m afraid. There are all sorts of health and safety and insurance implications.’
We could sense that she wanted to help, so decided to use our secret weapon; the pathetic, helpless faces that won over Mrs Rogers.
‘I can’t authorise anything myself, but I’ll give my area manager a call and see what she says.’ She scurried into the back office and then returned a few minutes later.
‘My manager wants to know if the hotel will get any exposure or media coverage if we let you stay. I mean, are you writing a book about it or anything?’
‘Yes, yes, of course. I’m going to write a book about it,’ I blurted. ‘And I’ll be sure to say how great this hotel is.’
‘Ok, great. I won’t be a minute,’ she said, returning to the office.
‘I didn’t know you were going to write a book,’ said Ben.
‘Neither did I.’
We were both laughing when she returned.
‘Right. I’ve got you a room for the night. Breakfast is 7am til 11am in the morning. Dinner is served until 9pm. What time shall I book you a table for?’
‘Dinner?’ Ben said.
‘Breakfast?’ I said.
‘Yes. You’ve got dinner and breakfast on us, too. Shall we say 8pm? That gives you an hour.’
‘Wow. Thanks. Yes, 8pm is perfect. Thank you.’
‘They better have a swimming pool,’ joked Ben as we walked to our room.
‘Look at us!’ said Ben throwing himself onto one of the beds in our room. ‘We’ve blagged a posh hotel.’
‘Don’t you feel a bit guilty about the fact that we only got it because they think they’re going to get publicity out of it?’ I asked.
‘Nah, course not. They’ll forget about us in a couple of days.’
‘No, I don’t mean guilty about deceiving them. I mean don’t you feel guilty about the fact that it’s the first time we’ve got something just on the basis that they thought there was something in it for them? We are supposed to be testing people’s natural generosity but the hotel was only generous because it thought it was going to get publicity.’
‘Yes, I suppose you’re right,’ said Ben. ‘You’re the one who said you were writing a book. She did want to help us, though. I mean, she was a nice person but just couldn’t do anything because of the bureaucracy.’
‘I know. Don’t worry, I’ll get over it. It just feels a bit like we cheated, that’s all.’
‘Oh my god, this shower is fucking amazing,’ I shouted to Ben from the bathroom two minutes later. ‘I bloody love hotels!’
It didn’t take me long to get over the guilty feeling.
She need not have bothered booking us a table. We were the only people in the entire restaurant.
Dinner was very nice but slightly uncomfortable. It was strange enough having a formal meal sat opposite Ben, when our conversation on the bikes was usually based around who could do the loudest fart. It was also slightly odd having a waitress that clearly wanted to be anywhere other than serving us.
In the hotel bar afterwards, Jaime-Lea - the waitress - was a completely different person. The moment her shift finished, all of her bitterness and antipathy vanished and she was great fun to talk to.
‘So is it true that you both don’t have a penny between you, and you’ve got all this way scrounging off of people?’ she asked.
‘Basically. Yeah.’
‘Fair play to ya,’ she said after necking a third of her pint of lager. ‘Suppose you could do with a fuckin beer then?’
‘Aww, thanks, but you don’t need to buy us drinks,’ I said.
‘I know I don’t, but I wanna. Anyways, Gav behind the bar’s had bugger all to do all evening. Might as well give him something to do.’
Like the restaurant, the bar was completely empty.
‘Is it always like this around here?’ I asked.
‘Yeah, pretty much,’ said Jaime-Lea. ‘We have conferences and weddings here sometimes, but it’s dead most of the time.’
She took another sip of her pint.
‘Stupid place to build a hotel, if you ask me,’ she muttered. Jaime-Lea bought us another two pints, and Gav the barman bought us a fourth. I’m not entirely sure that either of them were actually paying for the drinks, as we didn’t see any money go into the till. Still, it’s the thought that counts.
‘Haven’t you got a home to get back to?’ Ben asked Jamie-Lea.
‘Nah, I live in a flat above the hotel. There’s no escaping this bloody place. I’m here 24/7, even on my days off.’
She was almost asleep on the bar by the time we staggered back down the corridor to our beds.
I take huge delight in staying in hotels. It doesn’t happen very often, so when it does I am keen to make the most of my stay. I watch TV in bed, just because I can. I flick through all of the different satellite channels, because we only have the basic ones at home. I drink as many of the different teas and coffees as possible. I even drink the herbal teas and have been known to eat the sugar sachets just because they are there. I use the flannels. I wear a shower cap. I use bubble bath and moisturiser. I wash my hair with shampoo AND conditioner. I dry my hair with the hair dryer. I sometimes even read the Gideon Bible.
On this occasion, however, I ignored every single one of these luxuries and climbed straight into bed and went to sleep. Because of the nature of our bike ride, each night’s accommodation was unknown until late into each evening. The quality of our lodgings became insignificant. All we needed was some shelter, and whether this came in the form of a cow shed, a canal boat or a guest house, we were still as thankful. Things were stripped back down to basics; a posh hotel was no longer a posh hotel, it was simply somewhere to sleep at night. During our stay at The Lancashire Manor Hotel, the TV wasn’t even turned on, the shower cap and moisturisers stayed in their packets, the tea and coffee tray remained untouched, and the Gideon Bible remained in the bedside drawer.
Day 11 - Singing for sandwich
es
Up Holland to Milnthorpe - 67 miles
Jaime-Lea was serving at breakfast and she had reverted back to her zombie-like work persona. She did manage a coy smirk as she brought us both a coffee, but didn’t offer anything in the way of conversation.
I discovered that the Lancashire Manor Hotel closed down soon after our stay. Not because of us, I should add. It was a sad, yet somehow predictable end. How such a big hotel had survived in such a random location for so long was a surprise in itself. Here I am giving them the write up that I promised and it’s now all worthless. Having said that, I haven’t given it the most glowing of reviews; drunken waitresses, thieving bar staff, a deserted restaurant, and its proximity to Runcorn. I do hope that the staff all found jobs elsewhere, though, and that Jamie-Lea found somewhere else to live.
Mr Smiddy’s shorts were outrageous. They were verging on obscene and barely legal. Unlike most running shorts, these didn’t have any sort of lining and were slit all the way up to the waist on each side. This meant that a section of my Union Jack boxer shorts at the top of each thigh was on permanent display every time I moved my legs.
They were incredibly invigorating, though. I felt free. I felt liberated. I felt naked. Compared to the suit trousers, they were incredible. I could feel the air on my legs - as well as more intimate places. I suddenly felt more athletic, too, like I had been wearing the trousers pre-competition to keep warm, and now I had changed into my proper sporting gear. My legs instantly felt stronger, my body felt more energized and I was raring to go.
Soon after leaving the hotel we found ourselves hopelessly lost.
We had reached the village of Up Holland and it appeared that there was only one road out of the village, which we had taken. It turns out there is an alternative road that we missed. It was four miles and a long uphill walk before we realised this.
Ben and I blamed each other, and so hardly spoke for the entire morning. When we did speak, it was to gripe about the navigation.
Free Country: A Penniless Adventure the Length of Britain Page 19