Amble to London by bike: Day One

8 July 2023

We’re sitting outside Waitrose in Ponteland looking at Ben’s spokes. He’s having an almond croissant with a flat white. I’m on the green tea and a bit of his croissant. Some of the spokes are broken, while some are loose, and we’re thinking: “Something should be done” but we’re not sure what. Perhaps there’s a bike shop somewhere? Maybe we’ll bump into a mobile spoke repairer? Maybe spokes don’t matter? What’s the point of spokes anyway?

We’d left Amble a few hours earlier and we’re making decent time. We came the back way through Morpeth and we’re on track for Bishop Auckland tonight, which is the first stop on our 70th birthday ride to London. We’ve got a route and places to stay; we’re planning on 60 something miles a day; it’s not raining; we’ve made a podcast trailer; we’re in good spirits and we’re on the road.

About an hour later, we’re climbing a gentle incline in Gateshead and Ben touches my back wheel. I hear a crash and a thump; when I turn around he’s lying on the ground, evidently in a lot of pain. He tries to stand but can’t so I help by manoeuvring him to a nearby wall where he can at least rest his back. He’s looking shaken up and trying to pull himself together. He says he just needs a few minutes and then once he’s on the bike he should be better. He’s repeatedly rubbing his hip, attempting to assuage the pain. But it doesn’t work. A passing bloke helps me lift him on the wall in the hope this is a bit more comfortable for him. He turns ashen and starts to be sick.

I ring 999 but there’s no chance of an ambulance for at least 3 hours. Apparently, an old bloke crashed out on the ground doesn’t count as much of an emergency these days. The lass on the other end of the line suggests we take a taxi to the nearest A&E. I’m pondering the logistics of this, with bikes and panniers, when Ben remembers a friend in Newcastle with a van that should be big enough to take us to hospital. He rings Clare, who can come over and collect us. We tell Ben’s wife, Jill, what’s happened and she’s going to meet us at the hospital. 

Clare eventually finds us and we gingerly lift him into the front seat of her van. He’s still in a hell of a lot of pain. I put his bike in the back of the van and it’s clear there’s no room for me or my bike. Until this moment, I’ve been assuming the ride is over. I’ve been thinking that I’ll ring Eil, tell her what’s happened, and go back home some time in the evening after the hospital. But just as Ben and Clare are about to drive off to the hospital, I realise I’m not needed. Clare is eminently capable, Jill’s on her way, and I’m surplus to requirements. 

So, you know what, I might as well continue on my own. I tell Ben this is what I’m going to do and something moves me to kiss him on the forehead in a kind of makeshift blessing. ‘We’ have become ‘I’, which suddenly feels both less and more at the same time. My ride is now singular, wilder, unravelled and untravelled.

I call Eil and tell her what’s happened and that I’ve decided to keep going on my own. I’m feeling fit and there’s still plenty of time to reach my sister’s house in Bishop Auckland. I can do this. Halfway there, it starts to rain and I shelter for a while wondering if I’m doing the right thing. But then the rain passes, taking my doubts with it, and I make it to the welcome sight of my sister’s house without too much trouble. I realise I’ve lost my phone when I get there but luckily remember I left it in a nearby garage so that’s a relief at the end of what has been an entirely unexpected day.

Long bike rides have a soundtrack that accompanies them: lines from songs, extracts from poems, half-remembered conversations, inner monologues and dialogues. The soundtrack from today is Like a Rolling Stone with those famous swirling organ chords that deepen its majestic presence. “How does it feel?” implores Bob. “I don’t know yet,” I reply, “I just don’t know.” Let’s find out.