Angling for Knickers - Along With Other Cycle Touring Activities

By Steve Dyster

In these five travelogues, Steve Dyster attempts to demonstrate that there is much more to cycling than riding a bicycle (thanks to Paul Wagner for that adage). Be it nattering to the locals in varied and hybrid versions of their language or warning generous hosts about his biscuit consumption, it is the people and the things that don’t quite go as expected that provide the longest memories. Can he retrieve Louise’s bra? What are the mysterious footsteps in the dead of night? Can you really see around a corner? Can you buy two oranges in Andalucia? Can a tandem survive a lightning strike? Whether in the Cotswolds, the Sierra Nevada, the South of France, Ulster, or central Italy, the Grand Plan rarely survives.

Full of good examples of what not to do, and maybe the odd bit of sound advice, this is not a manual on how to cycle tour, just Steve's take on a handful of his cycle trips.

• Language: English
• Publisher: More to Cycling Than Riding A Bike Books
• Release date: Feb 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9781916195004

Book preview

ANGLING FOR KNICKERS

AND OTHER CYCLE-TOURING ACTIVITIES

BY

STEVE DYSTER

(SUMMER LIGHTNING? WITH EMMA HILLYARD)

COPYRIGHT

Copyright 2020 Stephen Dyster. All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal, for example, in line with fair use principles.

ISBN 978-1-9161950-0-4

More to Cycling Than Riding a Bike Books (2020)

Staffordshire, England

www.stevedyster.com

THE AUTHOR

Steve Dyster was a teacher for many years, later working for environmental transport charity, Sustrans, and earned a crust in several casual jobs. He’s currently trying to make enough money to finance cycle trips and the odd beer or two (or is it beer trips and the odd cycle) by being co-editor of www.sevendaycyclist.com and writing.

He’s author of two books published by The North Staffordshire Press. The first, The Navigator, comprises ten historical short stories centred on tales told by the aged Job Carter, bargee, about the world of his younger days, now days spoiled by the Victorian values which have inspired his family as they advance through the Age of Progress, leaving him trailing, hopelessly, behind in the bad old days. It has been described as fact or fiction, it’s all good fantasy; genius; a great, engaging read. Remarkably, it does not feature a single bicycle.

The second, A Bike Across the Sea, is an account of a journey from Stoke-on-Trent to the Czech Republic, intertwined with the story of a Second World War atrocity and the incredible response that echoed around the world from North Staffordshire’s colliers.

As a former teacher, he no longer has captive audiences to address. However, he’s always happy to talk about his books and the stories behind them. Feel free to get in touch. He promises not to set you any homework.

PREFACE & THANKS

I am not going to include my son in this, as he came along after all the trips described, except for the tandem weekend. We left him with Nanny and Pops for that. So, thanks are due to them.

I hope Louise has forgiven me for liberating her from the children’s playhouse in the locked car park of the supermarket, just as she was settling in for the day. I’d like to thanks her for keeping my writing on its toes – a thankless task – through fear of excoriating criticism. Louise was also a great companion cyclist who introduced me to the delights of the Forest of Bowland and many other parts of the north.

Finally, I’ll thank my dearest Emma who went from girlfriend to wife in the space of only a few cycle tours. Looking forward to many more years of exploring our world by bike and on foot.

INTRODUCTION

Angling for knickers is rarely dealt with as a topic relating to cycling, or almost anything else, if truth be told. This little collection of five travelogues, of varying lengths, therefore, also covers cycle touring, which is, beyond question, associated with cycling.

Even, so, every cycle tourer will have been angling for knickers, or one of its many equivalents, at some time, dependent on their circumstances and which particular gremlins have subverted the Grand Plan.

This book could have been entitled Biscuit Gorging: An International Perspective or Chase the Expander Bolt: An Advanced Guide or How to Walk Like a Constipated Astronaut. Certainly, cycle touring is not all about the bike.

Nor is it just about turning the pedals, although there is pleasure in that simple act. Someone once wrote that the actual, simple act of cycling is pretty boring to write or read about. It is the people encountered, the food and drink shared, and the strong likelihood that the plan will not survive contact with the road, that will bring back memories for years to come.

These rides were undertaken many miles ago, but with the aid of notebooks, photographs, and maps, that have survived the years, I’ve reworked the stories from much shorter articles I wrote at the time.

If you seek a manual on how to cycle tour, this is not it. I might try to write one, someday. It seems a dangerous task. Cycle tourers are notably independent, even anarchic, in their outlook; they all espouse particular ideas on what constitutes cycle touring and how it should be done. In that context, these, traveller’s tales are part of my take on cycle touring. They may well offer more in the way of things to avoid, than guidance for a dream journey.

All the tours described here were started and, remarkably, completed with a companion: the same companion! My good friend, Louise Coleman, in the first, and my then girlfriend now wife, Emma, in the others. Only Emma gets a say of her own, in the last, short piece, Summer Lightning? This is most certainly pure chance; nothing to do with Louise’s mastery of Lancastrian sarcasm. I hope she does not write a review!

Some like to tour solo. I’d have put myself in that category. However, touring with others can provide a convenient excuse when things don’t go to plan. Yet, many happy memories spring from those two things; travelling with a companion and things not going to plan.

I am fortunate enough never to have suffered anything more serious, during a cycle tour, than mishaps and annoyances. On the other hand, everywhere I have cycled has been fun, friendly, interesting, and often very beautiful. One thing that even cycle tourers can agree upon is that their preferred pastime brings joy to their hearts, even at the cost of bouts of pain to the muscles and joints. Cycle travel narrows the waist whilst broadening the mind.

COLD? WE ARE ENGLISH!

On a typically long pull up to a hilltop village, drizzle began to fill the air. Topping up our water bottles at the drinking fountain in the centre of Anticoli Corredo’s cobbled square, we spotted a little café in one corner. Coffee served, we perched on stools and sipped.

A fellow shelterer asked if we were cold. At least, I am pretty sure that was it. He spoke in Italian. Folk tend to in Lazio, the province that climbs into the Apennines to the east of Rome. Or could he have meant a chocolate Freddo Frog? No, I have been called many things, but never that.

Freddo?

Freddo? No, no, siamo Inglesi!

Ah! Anglish ciclismisti, proclaimed the proprietor, in best Italyish.

It was clear that, with Easter approaching, the locals hoped to have put their coats and pullovers away for the duration of spring and summer. That we were cycling in the hills and I was wearing shorts seemed puzzling to them. Although Louise was wearing longs, she was clearly under suspicion of insanity, as well. My answer seemed to satisfy curiosity, although we were to get the same reaction from locals as we headed up into the hills, even after I put my leggings on.

Later on, higher in the mountains, the weather did get colder, much colder, to the extent that Louise was on the verge of hypothermia. Fortunately, friendly locals sprang to the rescue.

Add to that illness, lost baggage, a missing rear quick release skewer, snow-blocked roads, near incarceration (though, happily, not by one of the numerous branches of the Italian police force), late flights, and the old military adage that no plan survives contact with the enemy was proven, once again. And a snapped front pannier rack.

The initial problem was that British Midland, our outbound airline, insisted that our bikes were put in boxes for the flight from Heathrow to Rome Fiumicino. Easily done, in big cardboard bicycle boxes from a local bike shop. What they did not tell us was that we would have to un-box them at the airport and then box them up again.

Foot and Mouth disease was choking the life out of the countryside in the UK, so Louise and I had decided to take our bikes to Italy for a bit of early spring warmth. The same disease also required, it emerged, that wheels of bikes be rolled through disinfectant by a member of the airport staff at all UK airports.

That was not unreasonable, of course, but by the time the bike reached Rome the rear quick release axle had disappeared through a rear axle shaped hole. Which son of a ham-fisted gun had aided its departure I know not, but to this day I remain convinced that the disinfectant application operative was responsible for setting it free. On arrival in Fiumicino it was not the only absentee.

A bigger problem was the failure of the pannier containing the camping gear to put in its expected appearance on the baggage carousel. Added to that, our flight arrived very late. We slept a fitful sleep on the airport floor, until woken with a gentle tap on the shoulder by two members of the airport police.

We began the long process of finding out where our missing bag was and when it might turn up. Assured that our bag was on the next flight to arrive from Heathrow, we were not that surprised when it was not. More chasing round, more assurances, more sitting about waiting. This evening. It will be here this evening. We will deliver it to your hotel. When you find a hotel call this number. We will send it by taxi.

So, off we set, with one disabled bike, to find a bike shop and a hotel. We wandered. We sought advice and help. Then we realised it was Sunday. No bike shop was likely to be open, so we settled for a hotel. Of course, we could have headed straight for the city centre on the train, but dragging bike and luggage around the sights was not an enticing prospect. In any case, had we done so, we would not have met Federico.

It was two pretty fed-up, hot, tired cyclists who, after many miles of wandering, staggered into Federico’s hotel.

Federico, the Cuban owner, charged across the vestibule like an enthusiastic bull spotting a matador. Smashing his fist against his chest with a force that would have defibrillated an elephant, he declared, Bicycles are my ‘eart! He dealt himself a second powerful blow.

We explained our predicament. I see. Tomorrow I take you in my car to the station. To Rome you must go. ‘ere is a shop, I give you the number and street. In the ‘eart of Roma! Easy. I winced at the shock waves as Federico whacked himself on the rib-cage for a third time.

Cycling was not his only enthusiasm. Apart from that, and hitting himself on the chest, he turned out to be a determined romantic of the stereotypically Mediterranean macho school. Cold-blooded, timid, Anglo-Saxons might eschew all that show, ignoring the smidgen of sadness that these grand gestures do not come to us so spontaneously as they do to the Federico’s of this world.

Once the bikes were stowed, he walked across to the reception desk and asked if we would like to stay for one or two nights. We opted for two. We could spend a whole day in Rome, buy the skewer, and have time for some sight-seeing. You have best room. Lots of space. Big bed. He winked at me, and smiled at Louise, as he gave us they key and helped us carry our luggage up the stairs.

The room was spacious and bright, it looked fine. On the other hand, the headboard of the double bed was luridly decorated with garishly coloured cupid-like cherubs wafting bows, arrows, and bunches of grapes about.

I’ll have the single, said Louise, claiming it with her bags.

There was a knock on the door and Federico entered, having scuttled down to the cellar and back up the stairs double-quick. He handed me a bottle of Prosecco, smiled, thundered his fist against his chest, and declared, Amore! with that, he spun on his heel and marched out.

It has been commonly assumed that Louise and I were a couple. Although there are those who say she was my soulmate, we were never more than good friends. We enjoyed each other’s company, not just when cycling and walking. This was in spite of her well-honed Lancastrian sarcasm. This could slice through my soft southern soul when I forgot that some cyclists insist on stopping for lunch and silly things like that. Lancastrian sarcasm, particularly that practised in Preston, should be outlawed under the Geneva Conventions. She now lives in New Zealand, which is, in my opinion, just about a safe distance.

Still neither my Italian or Spanish was anything like sophisticated enough to explain to Federico a concept so alien to his nature as male