Reflections on the puddle of life

Yes, it is finally done. Yesterday I braved the elements and completed a 60 mile bike ride from Manchester to Blackpool on behalf of the Christie Hospital. I've raised just short of £300 thanks to the generosity of my friends and colleagues.

The whole thing was amazing: amazing, exhausting, painful, amazing. I meant to take some pictures, but in the end I was so caught up in everything that I forgot all about it.

We started at the 'theatre of dreams', the Manchester United Football Club stadium in Old Trafford, Manchester. I've never seen so many bikes in one place. As we exited the slip road which took us down past the stadium all you could see was a kaleidoscopic jumble of colours and shiny metal. Every kind of cyclist was there, from the lean machine professional (kitted in luminous jersey; sleak, streamlined self and bicycle, no luggage) to the casual novice like me (fat, overladen panniers, t-shirt, token cycling shorts or tights or maybe not, hybrid or mountain bike) to those riding on unusual bikes (tandem, unicycle), to fancy dresser-uppers (prehistoric people, scary wigs, one girl in a giant nappy!). Everyone was in good humour, people were polite and considerate (although not always to motorists) and the atmosphere was charged but friendly. Judging from the entry numbers I could see around (we were all given an entry number, I was 2812) at least 8500 people took part in the event, all supporting various different charities.

We set off in groups from Old Trafford and followed the route which was signposted and marshalled. The organisation was very slick and well managed. At the beginning a lot of the roads had been closed, but later on we were sharing road with the usual traffic. I think it's worth saying here that the patience of motorists was truly commendable, there were times where the road was pretty snarled up with cyclists but no one got angry or impatient, they made room and took great care when passing. The British public might not always be on their best behaviour, but I was rightly proud of them yesterday. People living along the route came out to cheer the passing cyclists on. At junctions, people had gathered and put up signs and shouted encouragement or applauded as we passed.

Everything was going pretty swimmingly until I hit 42 miles. Then the rest of the ride was tough, to say the least. I was getting pretty tired, but I had plenty of food and water with me and wasn't adverse to stopping and taking regular rests if I needed to. It wasn't a race, after all. But at 42 miles it started raining, and the wind really picked up and it just sapped the strength out of me. I decided to stop at 48 miles and have a break, and then to try and power through to 55 miles, have a last break before pushing through to the end. Just after the 48 mile mark I found a spot and pulled over, just before the last big hill on the route. I parked my bike then noticed a man lying on the ground waving frantically at me. Turned out he'd got cramp (he was only a kid, maybe 18-22 at most) and he couldn't get up. It was raining and cold and he looked flushed but was shivering. He seemed to be in a lot of pain. Deciding he needed a medic, I called for an ambulance and waited. I ended up waiting with him for 40 minutes, which was a much longer stop than I had planned (I'd given myself a maximum stop time of 15 minutes). In the end the ambulance still didn't come, but a man who lived nearby and had been watching the ride, and had been with us most of the time, offered to stay with him so I could carry on. I felt terrible leaving him.

So after 40 minutes of standing around in the cold and damp I was pretty seized up. Still, I managed to get through to the 55 mile mark and things seemed to be going well. But the route took us by the seafront at Lytham St Annes. By the time we got there the winds were gusting a 30 mph and we were completely exposed. I dropped down gears and peddled on, managing speeds of between 5-10mph. The wind was horrific. A lot of people got off and walked at this point. Then I saw my husband and kids waiting for me by the side of the road. So I went to sit with them for a bit. I had a rest and some Powerade (which is disgusting, but works) and my husband took my panniers off the bike and put them in the car to lessen the weight a little. After a good ten minute rest I was ready to move on. I got back on my bike and faced the wind.

Luckily the route soon turned off the sea front and with the benefit of a little shelter it wasn't too bad. By now the biggest problem was that everyone was running on low power so it was easy to get snarled up behind some slow moving cyclists. The route also took us down past the sand dunes at St Annes, which are enormous and whippy at the best of times. We got totally sandblasted (I now have silkily smooth skin )and I think I spent most of that part of the route with my eyes closed!

The roads seemed endless, and I was beginning to wonder if I'd ever finish. I'd had my eyes peeled for Blackpool Tower for miles, but other than spotting it at the 22 mile mark I hadn't seen a beam of it which is impressive for a building that size. Then suddenly, there it was. I nearly cried. Pushing through the last of the pain I sailed down across the finish line, passed the crowds of people cheering and waving. What a lovely feeling.

Exhausted but ecstatic I caught up with my hubby and kids and we all went back to St Annes for fish and chips. A perfectly unhealthy end to a challenging day.

Would I do it again? Well, not today but next year? Who knows?