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@TheorySwine
Still languishing in Nottingham, so took another round trip to Newark on some newly found and still in favour country lanes.
Ideal day - bright, no wind. The outward leg was trouble-free but ridden at approaching full-pelt, as I've started using a trip-computer which I'm inevitably pitting myself against. It will be the death of me. Upon arrival I admired my statistics, ate some chocolate, smoked a roll-up and quaffed a Coke. I also admired Newark's finest, which didn't take long.
On the return leg I missed a turn but kept on going regardless, as I'm not fond of backtracking and the conditions remained excellent. Everything was peachy - I felt strong, and the bike ate up the miles. My diversion added significantly to the trip and required a run up the A46 which is not ideal, but it retreated into a state of hardly any traffic on my arrival, much like Moses walking into a nightclub. I couldn't imagine this ride getting any better.
And it didn't. At 29.9 miles my left crank made a successful bid for freedom. All of a sudden it was wobbling away, to shortly come entirely away in my foot. The bolt had long disappeared to a patch of road who knows where. I was without tools anyway so put it back on hopelessly just to cycle 30 miles, out of nothing more than spite. A hopeless situation. Remarkable how disappointed I was to have this ride taken away from me. I was angry. I pushed the bike a bit and sang, as the quiet roads mocked me with their being so damn inviting.
Within 5 minutes a very tall chap on a Nelson pista, a common sight in London certainly but akin to a miracle in the sticks, saw me. I certainly could not miss him. Using a brick and piece of wood found at the entrance to a farm nearby he improvised fitting the crank securely. That sort of thing is well beyond me. I thanked him sincerely as he rode off again, this vision on a track frame with blue BMX flat pedals. I rode for about 25 seconds before the crank objected again and returned to its state of separation.
Back to walking. Tractors. Women on horses. Cold. Boredom. A sign told me my destination was 3 3/4 miles away by now. I thought I was nearer than that. A sign a further 15 minutes away, on the same road, informed me I had in fact 5 miles left to walk. How could that be? I'd made no turn. I called the council and shouted at them for micro-political false promises. I called the Mayor a cunt. He promised me a peerage for services rendered. From out of nowhere I heard a shout of 'I'll see if I can find you a bolt'.
I turned to see who this could possibly be. Blow me down, Nelson-pista-with-inappropriate-pedals-man. Unbeknownst to me I'd walked past his house and he'd seen me again, and recognised his first effort at repair had not worked. Sadly after looking he couldn't find one so he applied the patented Murts technique of bashing the crank harder than I was comfortable with or would have dared myself with a hammer. It was ridable again, thus saving me a further hour of pushing my bike with a defiant left-sided crank in my left hand, which appeals to the neurosis in me.
Fucking bikes. They taunt you. I have learned though that I need to be able to point the finger only at myself for their maintenance, and to leave home prepared. They need looking over before every journey, I suppose. I have learned a life lesson, but the ride found no completion.