I'm pleased to report that I finished 2009 as I intend to go on in 2010; with a bike ride of course (and a barrel of tea afterwards). I somehow managed to motivate myself enough to get my cycling gear on and ride uphill for 3 miles, up Truleigh Hill, which, as it turns out, is literally next to where I live. How convenient; it looks like I have no excuses now for getting out of hill climbing practice, which I'm definitely going to need for Cornwall and Devon. Why is it that I don't remember a single hill in the whole of those two counties from my frequent holidays there as a child? What glitch has taken place in the matrix of my brain to omit this very relevant and somewhat pain inducing piece of information from my memory? Anyhow, I've heard from Nige (who's heard from others, these faceless, nameless others who bear terrible news) that there are many, many hills in Devonshire and Cornwall, and in a matter of months, the two of us shall be pedalling our little legs off trying to get up and down them. Apparently it's like riding a rollercoaster for three days straight, except that you're the one doing all the work to get up each incline. Great. Simply great. I cannot wait.
Anyhow, on to the training update.
On Christmas Eve, and again on Boxing Day, we went out and cycled 11.6 miles through a true winter wonderland in Darwen, Lancashire. I think we only saw three other cyclists over the two days, one of whom had just returned from Norway, where he'd been touring. He stopped to borrow Nige's allen key, and I quickly aborted my plan to have a quick wee in the snow, although I did have one in the same spot the day before. A liberating moment in my life it was: I had been particularly grumpy that day (sorry Nige), and shortly after my snow moment, I attempted to cause a fight with my much-beleaguered boyfriend by calling him "Mr. Penguin", a retaliatory remark towards him because he'd said that I'd happily not fuel myself properly on a bike ride and then go home and eat four Kit Kats, when he openly admitted to eating SIX penguins in one sitting! Sadly, his comment about my Kit Kat consumption was not wholly inaccurate. Luckily, my derisively intended remark was met with a bout of laughter by us both. My mood lightened after that.
Nige and I had driven up North with our bikes in the back of the car on 16th December - 8 days earlier than we'd planned to - with presents and bags and helmets and food wedged in whatever empty spaces we could find. What really filled the car though was not physical; Winston, Nige's 1989 Honda Civic, carried a son's grief, loss, sadness, celebration, honour and memory of his father as we made the 300 mile journey to Lancashire. We drove up North earlier than intended because Jim Atkinson, Nige's dad, who I wrote about in previous posts, passed away on 13th December.
On the morning of the 14th, I had checked my phone to find a voicemail message waiting. I knew straight away that this was the call I desperately didn't want to hear. Because I was so upset, I was sent home from work, and it made perfect sense to me when Nige told me that all he wanted to do was ride for his dad.
So we rode.
We rode, a tribute to a great man and an inspirational cyclist. Nige and I rode, and cried, and prayed, and as we rode we called out to passing pedestrians or drivers, "We're riding for Jim!" Suddenly, our Lands End to John O'Groats trip had taken on a new significance, a more deeply rooted motivation.
Jim Atkinson spent his final days in the East Lancashire Hospice, and while we were up North, we visited it to thank the staff there for the exemplary care they took of Jim. Nige and I seemed to come to a simultaneous understanding, silently at first, that we will be riding for the hospice when we do our tour next year. It's sad to think that they lack basic items - reclining chairs, for example - but lack them they do. However, one thing is clear; love is present there, overflowing out of the rooms, down the corridors, and into the hearts of all who walk or are brought through the hospice's doors.
Jim's death was as beautiful as his life. He truly let go, rather than giving up, and an abundance of cards, flowers, words and laughter have flooded in since his passing. As I've said before, I find it quite mind-boggling that a man born in 1930 in Lancashire could have so deeply affected my life here in the 21st century.
I sincerely hope that in our endeavour to ride from Land's End to John O'Groats, Nige and I can raise some much-needed funds for the hospice, a small token of thanks for the care, dignity and respect they bestowed upon Jim and upon all they care for. At the moment, we don't even know quite how we're going to fund our own train journey to Land's End and back from John O'Groats, or all the hostels we'll need to stay at en route, but I'm certain that with faith, hope, and a little bit of luck (2 points for being able to cite the musical), we'll do it.
I'm going to be setting up sponsorship options very soon, and I know that this is a tight time of year for everyone, immediately after Christmas. Please, if you can and want to, swap a week of Starbucks/your next takeaway/that extra piece of cake for the opportunity to make a huge difference to the lives of some people who you'll probably never meet, but who in some respects, will be just like Jim Atkinson: a legend in his own right, a grandad, a father, a husband, a friend, a man who, like all of us, had a right to live and die with his dignity intact. I've personally met the nurses at the hospice, and it would be one of the greatest honours of my life to be able to support their work through this bike ride.
Thank you.
Much love to you for the first week of a new month, a new year, this new decade that is upon us.
Over and out.
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