Eccleston to Wem

In the early hours of this morning, there were probably the most violent thunderstorms I have ever experienced. It felt apocalyptical, with bright flashes of lightning followed by explosion after explosion of thunder, rumbling on and on and on. And then there was torrential rain and hail, hammering down on the bivvy tent. By 6.00am, it seemed to be easing off, and now, fully awake, I got up. I had been staying in 'The Charity Farm,' a working farm, that offers camping, caravanning, fishing and horse riding. The owner had a voice that sounded just like Wallace from 'Wallace and Gromit.' Again, the previous evening, I had been struck by the warmth and generosity of people as we entered into conversation; the struggles people have faced, and the donations, drinks and food offered.

As I left the site, there was the cooing of pigeons, and the sound of a woodpecker repeatedly drilling into a tree close by. But after that, nature was to be the last thing on my mind. I was cycling through a largely urban area, with A roads and motorways crisscrossing the map. I was able to make use of quieter B roads for the first ten miles, but cycling through Warrington was unavoidable, along the cycle track beside the dual carriageway of the A49, lined with major stores, industrial units, and fast food outlets like McDonald's and Kentucky. Several motorists or cyclists stopped to take a photo, and share their own cycling adventures. And there was the usual honking of horns, and thumbs up. Then in the centre of the city, I had to negotiate traffic lights, roundabouts, and queues of cars, buses and lorries. I decided to stick to the A49 out of Warrington, as there seemed to be no alternative. And for the next four hours or so, I pedalled along, pretty oblivious to anything, a strong headwind, and the heat of the sun, curtailing my progress. Numerous motorbikes thundered past, seemingly using the road as a racetrack.

It wasn't until I reached the market town of Whitchurch in Shropshire, that I was really able to enjoy cycling again. There were views across stretches of countryside to the Welsh mountains, and the B road to Wem took me through quaint villages, a cricket match being played on one of the village greens. I'd been met in Whitchurch by James, on his carbon fibre racing bike. Not wanting to be too slow for him, I somehow found some last reserves of energy, and we steadied along at ten miles an hour. I was greatly relieved to reach his house. It was so refreshing to be able to take a shower, and enjoy a delicious meal cooked by his wife Adele, a former student of mine.

In the evening, we went to a party organised by one of James's and Adele's friends. Here, I was introduced to a world I'd previously had no knowledge of, that of the 'iron' man. There were a good half dozen or more iron men, ten or twenty years younger than me, talking of very little else but, well, being 'iron.' No, they weren't sharing stories of the most effective way to crease trousers, fold shirts, or of the latest steam generating irons. Nor did they discuss the pros and cons of various ironing boards. This is the competitive world of triathlons; competitive running, cycling and swimming. I was somewhat surprised to discover they shave their legs for that little bit of extra speed, and have iron man tattoos imprinted on their bodies. One iron man had just had a large 'M' dot tattoo imprinted on the rear of his calf, something the other iron men were hugely admiring of. The tattoo is only for men who have completed a challenging human endurance event. It's a large red 'M,' with a large red dot above. All of this gave me an idea. If I shave my legs, might I get that extra half a mille an hour on the penny? Could I start a movement for 'wheel men?' And should I have my own tattoo, being a 'wheel' man as I am?