Hard Cheese!

Hard cheese and a Carradice saddle bag?

Out on an evening bike ride, summer I recall, riding my trusty touring club bike, fixed gear as always at that time, I was on a circuit taking in Hindley, Haigh hall Blackrod and Rivington.

All was going well with no problems encountered, what’s not to enjoy on an evening bike ride in nice warm weather. Bike rides sometimes can turn out to riven with mini disasters, punctures, broken chains, mashed gears, fortunately not all these things occur at the same time though at times it seems like it. On this evening my enjoyment would be unexpectedly enhanced.

Slowly climbing a minor hump I looked up to see a van approaching me at a very fast speed, white van man at his best, when almost level with me he hit a pothole that bounced the van with great severity. To my surprise a large box also bounced out of the van landing with a dull thud on the tarmac beside me. I looked at the disappearing van, the driver oblivious to his loss.

Curiosity soon had me dismounting the bike eager to see what the bouncing box contained. Not another soul was about to witness the bouncing box so I looked at the object, no labels on, nothing to indicate what it may contain. I figured it wasn’t a bomb, it was still in one piece, so too was I of course. On opening the box to my surprise it was filled with one pound packs of ‘Lancashire Cheese’, around twenty I think.

I looked down the road, no sign of a returning van, I looked at my Carradice saddle bag, yep I reckoned the box and bag matched in size. Emptying the bag of it’s contents I then slid the box in, a perfect fit and the rest of my kit was laid on top, here the versatility of the long flap camper saddle bag came in handy, the full bag was now secured using the long flap and secondary straps, all neat and snug.

The extra weight of twenty pounds or so on the bike did have an effect on the handling of the bike but once accustomed proved not to be a problem.

On reaching home I unpacked the box on the kitchen table I quickly realised that as much as I liked Lancashire cheese too much of a good thing can lead to a dislike. I decided that a few of the clarion members, being Lancashire lads and lassies may have their Sunday club run enhanced by a bit of shared luck. So it was that on the next club ride my saddle bag again was filled with cheese, though my fridge was well stocked also thereby allowing a much lighter bike. Big cheesy grins all round greeted the unexpected distribution, extra enjoyment of the club run that day.

So there we have it, the unexpected mating of Lancashire Cheese with the legendary Lancashire made Carradice camper long flap saddlebag, long may the continue.

A dark day of remembrance

A dark windy morning on the moors.

The morning of the national day of remembrance began in the north west wet and windswept, not really a day to look forward to a bike ride, but oddly I was.

Along with the wind and rain came dark skies, a bit like the beginning of a dark novel, even at a time when some brightness should have been about, mid morning, so dark in fact the dynamo lighting on my bike was automatically switched on.

I made my way toward the moors of Rivington and Anglezarke on my bike, dressed in the unfashionable and very seldom sighted full cycling cape, if you haven't seen one of these, you aint seen nothing yet. I add this as younger cyclists these days are so street cred only very fashionable (and expensive) waterproof jackets are worn. With a strong wind behind me the cape morphed into a wind sail giving great assistance allowing easy pedalling.

Nearing Rivington Barn I passed a cycling group, front and rear light twinkling in the semi dark, by the side of the road, one a victim of a puncture. No assistance seemed to be required so I rode on by with a cheery nod in their direction.

At the barn I felt the need of the cape had expired, the rain had all but stopped so I propped the bike against a wall and changed into the waterproof I had thoughtfully added to my saddlebag, after all the return would likely be into the wind when the cape would be a detrimental drogue.

As I rummaged in the saddlebag, a proper one, not one of the under the saddle sandwich boxes, a young lady from the puncture group approached, 'have you any puncture patches?' A plaintive cry for assistance, two spare innertubes that immediately went down on installation would indicate a foreign body still stuck in the tyre. No tubes left and a patch needed. I rummaged in the side pocket of my trusty saddlebag and came up trumps with a small box of patches and glue bringing a gleam to the eye of the young lady. I handed it over, 'will you be here long?' I'm afraid not, I'll be on my way, you can keep it.

You may ask why I was so generous when I myself may have been in need of the repair kit, well for a start the saddlebag contains, along with tools spare kit, gloves a healthy supply of spare innertubes, these big Carradice bags may be heavy but so handy, I was happy to help but needed to be on my way to the remembrance service.

Off road now and nearing the site of the wartime bomber disaster, the track is an ancient one that at one time long ago led to the lead mines, at the trackside are the old industrial water causeways, at one point a sign indicates that this was 'number six slime pit'. I often wonder about this but have never taken the trouble to look further for an explanation preferring the mystery rather than the answer.

I ride as far as I can up the track then lock my bike to the fence before tackling the steep winding footpath to the monument at the spot of the wartime tragedy. It was here one fateful night in 1942 that a bomber crewed by Australian volunteers in the Royal Air Force met their fate, no survivors.

Each year, a service in their memory is held, organised by the Chorley ramblers, assisted by the Mountain rescue service, during which a moving poem by the mother of one of the young men is read by ladies, usually two, from the ramblers.

I am preceded at the top by early arrivals, Dave Bisset is already there, minus this year his usual companions, one on DIY duties the other domestically confined for the day.

High on the hillside the wind is reaching the forecast gale proportions almost blowing us off the crowded small plateau, despite the mild weather down below up here it had Dave shivering and rubbing his gloved hands.

The two minutes silence was observed via radio four followed by the 'Last Post', always a poignant moment if you are ex service. During National Service we began to recognise the nightly bugler by their individual style.

Service over Dave and I rounded the morning off at the Rivington tea room, pasty and chips for Dave, egg and bacon barm for me, the wind on the hillside had honed a healthy appetite.

 It was still only half light on the way home, and early afternoon at that, the automatic dynamo light still being switched, and so it remained the rest of the day, a day to reflect on.