“I can barely see where I’m going,” Clive shouted, as they pushed on into the downpour, sodden to the skin. Water bubbled from the laces of their clip-in shoes as they pressed down on the pedals.
“The forecast said it would clear up by now. It’s just 15 miles and we’ll be able to dry off,” shouted Jenny over her shoulder.
“15 more miles? I thought we were nearly there!” Clive said, trying not to let his crushing disappointment show. He didn’t want to mess up another relationship by showing how unhappy he was.
That said, he had been promised a “rest day”. Unlike Jenny, he was not an everyday cyclist and had been in all kinds of agony for the last two days. The only distraction from his leg pain was pain from his saddle area. The compromise was to alternate between standing and sitting. Less pressure was better, no pressure was best.
“We were nearly there, but then we took a wrong turning.”
“We?” thought Clive, before filtering.
“How did that happen?” still rather too sharply.
“The GPS doesn’t work properly in the rain. We just rode past the turning at the top of the last hill.”
“Oh, riiight, did we,” Clive said, keeping his feelings to himself.
They peddled on up the steady incline for a few more miles, Clive struggling on behind, the water streaming across his face, standing on his pedals to minimise his arse agonies.
Finally, they reached the top of the next hill. On a good day they’d be rewarded by a magnificent view across Borrowdale but today was not a good day. Today there was nothing but fog and cloud in every direction other than down.
But they would now be able to go somewhere without having to peddle. That came as an enormous relief to Clive whose legs had left him miles ago. On each turn of crank he was attempting to discover new, unexplored muscle groups not paralysed by lactate. And then, of course, there was his excruciating backside.
They stopped for energy gel and cereal bars. Never had sugar and oats felt so deeply nourishing. Clive seized the chance to disappear behind a stone wall on the premise of a nature break. In truth he was on a secret mission to insert a wad of foam dish cloths down the back of shorts.
Mission accomplished, they nodded to each other and pushed off. Clive was privately grateful to find his extra padding was effective. Jenny, meanwhile, privately wondered what had produced the bulge at the back of his shorts. She decided it best not to enquire.
They approached the crest of the hill and zipped up their jackets. It gets cold on the way down.
“Take it easy in the wet, Clive!” Jenny warned.
Clive pretended not to hear. He’d followed her advice all day and he was miserable. This was finally his chance to cash in on the hours of misery and he was not going to waste it.
Down he plunged, using all the road, apexing corners like a motorcyclist. The thrill of speed–free speed–was enough to extinguish the memories of his multiple areas of suffering.
“Careful, Clive!” called Jenny, from a few hundred metres back. “It’s slippy.”
She was still just close enough to see his front wheel touch a white line and let go, leaving Clive to skid across the tarmac with little to protect him.
She caught up and jumped off, laying her bike on the grassy verge. He was sitting up at the edge of the road by the time she got there, breathing heavily, prodding gingerly at a bloody knee with a bloody finger. They stumbled to a bus shelter a few hundred metres on, not saying a lot and finishing their stock of energy bars.
“What shall we do?” Jenny asked.
“Press on!” Clive said. “It can’t be that far.”
“It’s still another 10 miles or so. And you’re in a bit of a mess now.”
This was exactly the kind of excuse he needed, but he could not bring himself to take it.
“Oh, but it is but a flesh wound!” he said, grateful for a Monty Python to fill an awkward moment. Jenny didn’t laugh.
“Rosthwaite is only 3/4 mile away. How about we just roll to the bottom of the hill and try to book-in somewhere? We can get some hot food and dry off.”
“Well, if that’s what you want to do.” Colin said, shivering now as he shifted on his wad of kitchen sponges, yearning with all his being for those heavenly comforts. “But, honestly, there’s no pressure.” ■