This is purely from memory: I kept no diary and took no photos.
Anyone who saw my mention "34 years ago" on the thread in Support and Feedback, sorry! I counted the years wrong, must have been thinking this was still 2010! Should be "35 years ago".
This was the final day of a 5-day tour of England, when I was in my mid-20s. The idea was, set off from Bradford (where I was a student), two days to get down to my Mum's house in Surrey, then a longer 3-day loop to get back to Bradford.
Overnights were at Youth Hostels, to save on money and baggage. I was on my cherished Pennine, 531 road/tourer (its first year out), frameset hand built by none other than Johnny Mapplebeck (of Whitaker and Mapplebeck in Bradford) himself! Anyone else remember him? Splendid frame, though he was past his prime and not in the best of health, when he built mine.
I'll leave out the first 4 days for the very good reason that I can't remember much about them! All I know was, the first leg was Bradford to Copt Oak (near Leicester), second: Copt Oak to Redhill, third Redhill to Stow-on-the-Wold, fourth Stowe-on-the-Wold to Ratlinghope. So we come to Day 5.
What's memorable about summer 1976? Why, the famous drought of course: the hottest and driest summer on record. My tour was just at the beginning of the long dry spell, the first three days were rather drizzly but then it all got scorching hot for the last two days.
So I had some misgivings as I peered out of the Ratlinghope YH, in the grey morning, at the cloudless sky. A long way to go (subsequent calculations make it 130 miles, my longest ever day)!
The evening before, not having anything better to do, I'd joined up with some of the other people staying at the YH, gone down to the pub in the nearby village. I remember, as we were sitting outside the pub on that warm balmy evening, hearing the swifts wheeling and screaming overhead. So loud we could barely hear ourselves speak. Never heard swifts making so much noise, before or since. Were they on to something, perhaps?
Anyway, my first task in the morning was to get some milk. The hostel didn't have any, and had told me there were no shops nearby, but my best bet was to go a couple of miles up the road to a nearby farm, if I turned up just after milking they were sure to sell me some milk. So off I went at a leisurely pace, taking care to have my empty water-bottle to in the cage. Sure enough, they were willing to fill it with milk, still warm, straight from the cow, all untreated of course (probably that would be illegal nowadays?). This farm, it may very well have been.
Coming back up the farm drive and turning sharp right into the lane back to the YH, the gods mysteriously conspired to prevent me from taking the turn properly, and off I came
. First fall of the day. And I wasn't even under way!
Anyway, back at the YH, breakfast wolfed down, I was ready and pannier'd up to set off in earnest. Now my first task was the Long Mynd itself. Seeing it loom ahead was rather daunting, but in the cool early morning, it seemed to go remarkably smoothly and easily. I was quite impressed with my steady cruise to the top! Of course, anyone who knows the Long Mynd will tell you, the climb from Ratlinghope isn't the toughest one, but still I had a lot of metres to gain! So I was pleased to feel still perfectly fresh as I surveyed the view from the summit. There was I thinking, if all today's climbs go like this one, I'll be fairly swinging along!
How wrong can one be...
A delightful swooping descent into Church Stretton, and then I made my way onto the long straight B road that follows Wenlock Edge. I remember, as I rolled along this road, trying to recall some sort of poem I'd heard of "On Wenlock Edge, di dum di dum dum...", but I ain't no poetry buff! So I had to make do with the road, and a leisurely ride towards the Severn at Ironbridge.
I spent a long time there, inspecting the celebrated Iron Bridge itself (all put together with wedges and dovetails, not a single screw or bolt used), crossing and re-crossing it a few times, there was also a museum somewhere up the road, I had a quick look in there too. I was feeling pretty relaxed. Meanwhile, morning was passing....
Eventually I realised I had to get moving, so back in the saddle and goodby to the Severn, up a modest climb to Coalbrookdale. 'Modest', I called the climb, climbs were going well for me that day...
How wrong can one be...
So wending my way through a series of towns and villages, avoinding the conurbation of Telford as best I could, until I lighted upon a village with the delightful name of Preston-upon-the-Weald-Moors. That, I recall, was my lunch stop. Taken, sitting on the verge leaning back against a stone or brick wall. May have been this very wall, in fact.
Lunch eaten, I made my way up the villages to a place called Howle (I remember that name!
) where I had to join the busy A41 for a mile or so. Here I encountered trouble! The road had melted and was a morass of liquid tar! Nightmare to get through, I think I got off and walked in the end, was I glad to get off it onto quieter roads again! At least the traffic wasn't moving fast or furious.
After there I don't exactly remember the route I followed, but it probably took in places like Market Drayton, Woore, Madeley, Alsager Bank, the idea being to skirt the Western outskirts of the Potteries. Eventually, and by now it was getting pretty late in the afternoon, I made it to Congleton.
In a layby just outside the town, I got off the bike, sat on the grass, and wept. I knew now, I was over-running, badly, I was dead tired and dehydrated, the heat was killing me, and I still had at least two formidable climbs to do!
I had plenty of food still, but I'd run out of drink. 
Ah well, I decided to skip the 'cat and Fiddle' climb to Buxton, and carry on the main road to Macclesfield, then up the hills to Whaley Bridge. This totally sapped all that was left in my legs. On the way up I stopped at a pub (I'm not normally a solitary drinker), bought a pint and gulped it straight down. At least it was Real Ale - of some sort. A few miles further - I did exactly the same thing. I remember the barmaid looking a bit askance at me, asking how many pints I wanted, was I alright, was I stopping for a meal, that sort of thing. I assured her, I had to press on. I also remember filling my bottle at a stream - probably most unwisely but there wasn't a house or shop in sight. I went on - somehow.
The charms of New Mills, Hayfield, passed me by in a daze, but eventually I found myself descending at indecent pace into Glossop. At the traffic lights in the town centre, I stopped - somehow. I couldn't unstrap my feet. Over I went. My second fall of the day. Much to the alarm (or was it amusement?) of the many passers-by who ran to my aid, but I was all right. It took me an age to get back into the saddle, though. By now I was parched with thirst again but evening was drawing in.
So: yet another climb, to Woodhead. I knew this road well, often having paused to watch the occasional goods train (no passenger trains) which still made its way through the celebrated Woodhead Tunnel. Line long since gone, I think: the LC used to be here IIRC. But that night I was in no mood for train-spotting.
So we come to the dreaded Holme Moss. I ought to have avoided it somehow, but I had no map, only some rough route notes. At least I knew the Holme Moss climb for all its worth. I honestly don't know how I made it. I remember passing the 'escape road' for descending runaway cars. I remember stopping many many times. I couldn't begin to say how many. I remember my legs simply refusing to turn, I couldn't unstrap, down I went for the third time. Something tells me I didn't get off and walk - don't know but I just feel I did it all in the saddle. Anyway a zombie emerged at the top. By now it was fully dark. I had lights, but in those days lights were nowhere near as good as nowadays. Let's just say, I had lights, and I contemplated the descent to Holme. Gradually I picked up speed. And speed, and speed. The north descent from Holme Moss is narrow and winding. Somehow I caught sight of this dry-stone wall bearing up at me, somehow I wrenched the handlebar round with inches to spare. If I hadn't, there would have been no 661-Pete to trouble this forum in these latter days
! Somehow that manoeuvre wasn't an 'off', somehow I was still aboard as my brakes screamed to temper my pace. Somehow I reached Holme village.
I can't remember the rest of it, through Holmfirth, then Huddersfield, then Brighouse, in almost deserted streets, then the outskirts of Bradford. I can't remember stumbling into the flat about 2am, not even sure I put the bike away, flung myself fully-dressed on the bed. Half an hour later I was convulsed with a deadly tremor and shuddering coupled with nausea. I went to the loo. I was violently sick. I dragged myself back to the bed. Then I slept. I couldn't rise from the bed all of next day. Nor the day after. On the third day I was more or less OK.
Motto: if anyone wants to do a latter-day version of this, make sure you plan it properly!
Anyone who saw my mention "34 years ago" on the thread in Support and Feedback, sorry! I counted the years wrong, must have been thinking this was still 2010! Should be "35 years ago".
This was the final day of a 5-day tour of England, when I was in my mid-20s. The idea was, set off from Bradford (where I was a student), two days to get down to my Mum's house in Surrey, then a longer 3-day loop to get back to Bradford.
Overnights were at Youth Hostels, to save on money and baggage. I was on my cherished Pennine, 531 road/tourer (its first year out), frameset hand built by none other than Johnny Mapplebeck (of Whitaker and Mapplebeck in Bradford) himself! Anyone else remember him? Splendid frame, though he was past his prime and not in the best of health, when he built mine.
I'll leave out the first 4 days for the very good reason that I can't remember much about them! All I know was, the first leg was Bradford to Copt Oak (near Leicester), second: Copt Oak to Redhill, third Redhill to Stow-on-the-Wold, fourth Stowe-on-the-Wold to Ratlinghope. So we come to Day 5.
What's memorable about summer 1976? Why, the famous drought of course: the hottest and driest summer on record. My tour was just at the beginning of the long dry spell, the first three days were rather drizzly but then it all got scorching hot for the last two days.
So I had some misgivings as I peered out of the Ratlinghope YH, in the grey morning, at the cloudless sky. A long way to go (subsequent calculations make it 130 miles, my longest ever day)!
The evening before, not having anything better to do, I'd joined up with some of the other people staying at the YH, gone down to the pub in the nearby village. I remember, as we were sitting outside the pub on that warm balmy evening, hearing the swifts wheeling and screaming overhead. So loud we could barely hear ourselves speak. Never heard swifts making so much noise, before or since. Were they on to something, perhaps?
Anyway, my first task in the morning was to get some milk. The hostel didn't have any, and had told me there were no shops nearby, but my best bet was to go a couple of miles up the road to a nearby farm, if I turned up just after milking they were sure to sell me some milk. So off I went at a leisurely pace, taking care to have my empty water-bottle to in the cage. Sure enough, they were willing to fill it with milk, still warm, straight from the cow, all untreated of course (probably that would be illegal nowadays?). This farm, it may very well have been.
Coming back up the farm drive and turning sharp right into the lane back to the YH, the gods mysteriously conspired to prevent me from taking the turn properly, and off I came
. First fall of the day. And I wasn't even under way!Anyway, back at the YH, breakfast wolfed down, I was ready and pannier'd up to set off in earnest. Now my first task was the Long Mynd itself. Seeing it loom ahead was rather daunting, but in the cool early morning, it seemed to go remarkably smoothly and easily. I was quite impressed with my steady cruise to the top! Of course, anyone who knows the Long Mynd will tell you, the climb from Ratlinghope isn't the toughest one, but still I had a lot of metres to gain! So I was pleased to feel still perfectly fresh as I surveyed the view from the summit. There was I thinking, if all today's climbs go like this one, I'll be fairly swinging along!
How wrong can one be...
A delightful swooping descent into Church Stretton, and then I made my way onto the long straight B road that follows Wenlock Edge. I remember, as I rolled along this road, trying to recall some sort of poem I'd heard of "On Wenlock Edge, di dum di dum dum...", but I ain't no poetry buff! So I had to make do with the road, and a leisurely ride towards the Severn at Ironbridge.
I spent a long time there, inspecting the celebrated Iron Bridge itself (all put together with wedges and dovetails, not a single screw or bolt used), crossing and re-crossing it a few times, there was also a museum somewhere up the road, I had a quick look in there too. I was feeling pretty relaxed. Meanwhile, morning was passing....
Eventually I realised I had to get moving, so back in the saddle and goodby to the Severn, up a modest climb to Coalbrookdale. 'Modest', I called the climb, climbs were going well for me that day...
How wrong can one be...
So wending my way through a series of towns and villages, avoinding the conurbation of Telford as best I could, until I lighted upon a village with the delightful name of Preston-upon-the-Weald-Moors. That, I recall, was my lunch stop. Taken, sitting on the verge leaning back against a stone or brick wall. May have been this very wall, in fact.
Lunch eaten, I made my way up the villages to a place called Howle (I remember that name!
) where I had to join the busy A41 for a mile or so. Here I encountered trouble! The road had melted and was a morass of liquid tar! Nightmare to get through, I think I got off and walked in the end, was I glad to get off it onto quieter roads again! At least the traffic wasn't moving fast or furious.After there I don't exactly remember the route I followed, but it probably took in places like Market Drayton, Woore, Madeley, Alsager Bank, the idea being to skirt the Western outskirts of the Potteries. Eventually, and by now it was getting pretty late in the afternoon, I made it to Congleton.
In a layby just outside the town, I got off the bike, sat on the grass, and wept. I knew now, I was over-running, badly, I was dead tired and dehydrated, the heat was killing me, and I still had at least two formidable climbs to do!
I had plenty of food still, but I'd run out of drink. Ah well, I decided to skip the 'cat and Fiddle' climb to Buxton, and carry on the main road to Macclesfield, then up the hills to Whaley Bridge. This totally sapped all that was left in my legs. On the way up I stopped at a pub (I'm not normally a solitary drinker), bought a pint and gulped it straight down. At least it was Real Ale - of some sort. A few miles further - I did exactly the same thing. I remember the barmaid looking a bit askance at me, asking how many pints I wanted, was I alright, was I stopping for a meal, that sort of thing. I assured her, I had to press on. I also remember filling my bottle at a stream - probably most unwisely but there wasn't a house or shop in sight. I went on - somehow.
The charms of New Mills, Hayfield, passed me by in a daze, but eventually I found myself descending at indecent pace into Glossop. At the traffic lights in the town centre, I stopped - somehow. I couldn't unstrap my feet. Over I went.
My second fall of the day. Much to the alarm (or was it amusement?) of the many passers-by who ran to my aid, but I was all right. It took me an age to get back into the saddle, though. By now I was parched with thirst again but evening was drawing in.So: yet another climb, to Woodhead. I knew this road well, often having paused to watch the occasional goods train (no passenger trains) which still made its way through the celebrated Woodhead Tunnel. Line long since gone, I think: the LC used to be here IIRC. But that night I was in no mood for train-spotting.
So we come to the dreaded Holme Moss. I ought to have avoided it somehow, but I had no map, only some rough route notes. At least I knew the Holme Moss climb for all its worth. I honestly don't know how I made it. I remember passing the 'escape road' for descending runaway cars. I remember stopping many many times. I couldn't begin to say how many. I remember my legs simply refusing to turn, I couldn't unstrap, down I went for the third time. Something tells me I didn't get off and walk - don't know but I just feel I did it all in the saddle. Anyway a zombie emerged at the top. By now it was fully dark. I had lights, but in those days lights were nowhere near as good as nowadays. Let's just say, I had lights, and I contemplated the descent to Holme. Gradually I picked up speed. And speed, and speed. The north descent from Holme Moss is narrow and winding. Somehow I caught sight of this dry-stone wall bearing up at me, somehow I wrenched the handlebar round with inches to spare. If I hadn't, there would have been no 661-Pete to trouble this forum in these latter days
! Somehow that manoeuvre wasn't an 'off', somehow I was still aboard as my brakes screamed to temper my pace. Somehow I reached Holme village.I can't remember the rest of it, through Holmfirth, then Huddersfield, then Brighouse, in almost deserted streets, then the outskirts of Bradford. I can't remember stumbling into the flat about 2am, not even sure I put the bike away, flung myself fully-dressed on the bed. Half an hour later I was convulsed with a deadly tremor and shuddering coupled with nausea. I went to the loo. I was violently sick. I dragged myself back to the bed. Then I slept. I couldn't rise from the bed all of next day. Nor the day after. On the third day I was more or less OK.
Motto: if anyone wants to do a latter-day version of this, make sure you plan it properly!
