Well here goes:
Phase 1: the meetup.
Having arrived first at Manchester Piccadilly, myself and Mrs Yoav, Helen, took up position on the 1st floor balcony bar where we could spot everyone else arriving. Eventually others arrived and made our way to Albert Square where a group of 16 were ready to set off under Andrew’s experienced leadership. So far, so predictable.
Phase 2: the depart.
Initial riding through Manchester back roads gave no indication of what was to come. After what seemed like numerous crossings of the river Irwell we were met with Andrew’s off road alternative route. There was a gate to a park (I think it was called Prestwich Forest Park). Beyond the gate there was only darkness, and monsters, probably. Cue comedy off-roading, a term coined in this forum, I believe, as we rode line astern in close formation as not to lose anyone (to the monsters). Obstacles along this section of the route included mud, more mud, standing water and fallen trees. Not to mention the hardware the council had obligingly placed at regular intervals to give us cyclists some practice in agility cycling to get over, under or round said obstacles. Most required getting off our bikes but Kim, our only recumbent rider managed to ride under one without stopping. Kudos to her.
Phase 3: the climb
Eventually, we emerged from the jungle back to civilisation. We stopped at the bus stop to pay our respects to our departed friend and then began the climb up to the moors which marks the highest point of the ride. Initially, nothing was amiss. At a re-gathering stop mcshroom pulled up to tell us his frame had broken. I must admit I was rather impressed by his cheerfulness and optimism at this disaster. And without further ado, he turned round and freewheeled back down the hill.
We continued the climb. I noticed I was getting wetter and wetter, yet it wasn’t raining. We were riding into a cloud. Visibility was also getting worse by the metre and all we could see was the white line in the middle of the lane to tell us we were still on the road. It was impossible to tell whether we’d reached the top except by the gradient beneath our wheels suddenly changing from up to down. It was a shame as on previous rides, nighttime views of the landscape below us were quite spectacular but not tonight. The descent down into Blackburn was not quite as gung-ho as previously owing to reduced visibility but the doors of the 24 hour McDonalds were as welcoming as ever.
Phase 4: the full tummy bit
We emerged from McD to early daylight. Previously, the ride was held later in the year with longer nights but in June, dawn comes much earlier. I always liked this part of the ride as it goes through some beautiful countryside which I could get a better look at in daylight. Still, although still called a night ride, most of the ride was in daylight. Passing Longridge and Garstang, we then deviated from previous years and headed for Fleetwood, somewhere I’d never been before. A series of quiet roads and a tailwind saw us making good progress towards breakfast. “Only six miles to go” said Andrew. After a few miles, it was still six miles to go and a while later, still six miles. Either we were hallucinating or Andrew’s calculations were off. We managed to delay impending hypoglycaemia by sharing out the last of our jelly beans and having raised our blood glucose sufficiently, we heard Andrew confess that his numbers were off.
Phase 5: breakfast
You know these shops you find in many seaside towns that sell all manner of tat? Buckets and spades, sticks of rock, Hawaiian shirts, that sort of thing. Well, this one did all that and breakfast. And what a good breakfast it was. Tables laid out on the pavement - very European in the land of Brexit - were waiting for us. The ladies running the cafe took our orders and brought the food very quickly. The only problem, for some, was the lack of alcohol. That would have to wait.
Once fed, we rode along the sea wall to Blackpool. A 10 mile off road stretch that proved remarkably enjoyable despite the onshore wind. The sights of Blackpool slowly emerged from the mist, but to be honest, they didn’t look any better close up than from a distance. Although we planned for a proper pub stop here, news of train service disruptions made us go to the station first to check out the situation. When we got there, we found out that virtually every train out of Blackpool had been cancelled and replaced by buses.
Phase 6: the rescue
So there we were, a dozen cyclists hanging about the station, wondering how we were getting home or if we were getting home, or destined to stay in Blackpool forever. Suddenly, and I still don’t know how or what happened, but we were ushered onto a train and told to spread ourselves out along the length of the train. There were no other passengers on the train. Without any announcements, the train set off. But where was this impromptu ‘cyclists special’ heading? Hopefully to Preston and Manchester. After stopping a several deserted stations we pulled into Preston where we said our goodbyes to those continuing onto the big smoke and the rest of us to take connecting trains. Wtf just happened was foremost in my mind.
Phase 7: friends reunited and epilogue
On the platform at Preston station, we met Marcus and his broken bike. No doubt he will tell you of his own Friday night experience but we were very glad to see him there. We made our way to the station bar and had that long awaited drink. Sorry that it couldn’t have been with the whole crowd and sadly, I wasn’t able to say goodbye to everyone but thanks to Andrew for organising a great ride, to all the other Fridays for their great company and for serendipity for giving us a most surreal experience.
