Saturday 16 February 2013

A message from Frank Burns in New Zealand
 
 
Hi everyone,
I send this from the depths of S Island in NZ, after what has been a very eventful end-to-end ride. Only a few days from arriving in Bluff, I will then be going over to Australia to ride from Sydney to Melbourne......and hoping things have cooled down a bit.
The people of NZ have been magnificent, donating freely to the Children in Syria Appeal, offering me accommodation and feeding me. I've got used to the "drive-by donation" (people handing me money from their cars at 20mph!), people approaching me in cafes and at beauty spots, wanting to make a contribution.
It has been heartwarming, to say the least.
The most nerve-wracking incident happened the other day: my seat tube parted company with the bottom bracket! So glad I was riding a steel frame. Found a local welder who welded it back together, and a bike shop that sorted out all the kit. I hate to dwell on the consequences of what might have happened.......
You can follow the story at www.frankburns.WordPress.com
And if you would like to make a donation: www.justgiving.com/Frank-Burns1
See you up the road!
Frank
Sent from my HTC

Friday 15 February 2013

Omnibus Postscript



Omnibus Postscript
Another Tuesday, another bus trip.  Less of an epic, more of a routine.  Things began well when the Kettering bus arrived nearly 15 minutes late in Rothwell, already bursting with Desborough pensioners eager to shop in the metropolis.  I squeezed myself on board with the Rothwell party and was almost immediately offered a seat by a young lady.   I have experienced this before and it comes as an embarrassment to we independent old codgers who, even on empty buses, walk past the front seats bearing notices that these are to be given up for the elderly or disabled.  We don’t consider ourselves to be either.   It’s intriguing that the young ladies offer their seats whilst young men sit solidly in place.
On arrival at the hospital, at least half the passengers alighted, most of them elderly, disabled or struggling with prams.   Everyone now had a seat.  I had about 5 minutes to spare in Kettering before the Raunds bus arrived and I climbed aboard, accompanied by an elderly lady.  We both naturally ignored the seats marked “please give up this seat, etc...  The ride to Cranford was short but exceedingly noisy with just about every component rattling and banging and I even feared that we might have to get out and push as pedestrians appeared to be walking equally quickly up Barton Hill.   The bus emptied at Cranford where both of us passengers staggered off and the driver was left to make his lonely way towards Thrapston with his rattle-trap of a vehicle.
Considering the weather conditions, with snow still on the ground and ice much in evidence, The Old Forge was quite full and, to my surprise and pleasure, there were at least 9 of us cyclists.  I was even more surprised when the proprietor, who also happens to be a cyclist, said to me, “Do you remember coming in here shortly after we opened?”  That would be at least three years ago and yes, I did remember and I’ve been in several times since, on my own or with others.  Indeed, on one occasion, I arrived 5 minutes before closing time and he stayed open for me to have a pot of tea.
“I over-charged you,” he said.
“I’ve been in here several times since then,” I replied, “and I wouldn’t have noticed anyway”.
“You may have your scone free”, he offered, when I ordered a cheese scone, due to arrive in 15 minutes. 
“That’s fine,” I said, “my bus doesn’t come for nearly another hour”.
It appears that I have one of the most recognisable of faces and people have even reported seeing me in places where I’ve never ever been.  What a relief that I never embarked upon a criminal career....



Friday 8 February 2013

A thrilling day out



A thrilling day out

7.00am Tuesday 5th February:  I awake with a tingling feeling of anticipation and prepare myself for a very special day out.  Showered and smartly dressed for the grand occasion I shovel my porridge down quickly and check that I have everything ready for the journey of a lifetime. 
9.25am:           With my documentation pocketed I set out for the first stage of my trip.  Who knows what dangers I might face and there is the daunting prospect of being left stranded if my carefully planned time table failed.  It is very cold, there is a bitter wind blowing, but the sun is shining.
9.55am:           My first carriage arrives, 10 minutes late, in the form of the No. 19 Stagecoach.  Shivering I show my boarding pass and step into its luxurious seating area.
10.20am:         Arrive in Corby after travelling through Desborough, where four passengers alight but no one boards, and Rushton, where no one does either.  The driver maintains a sedate pace in order not to cause discomfort for remaining few passengers.   I now have a 40 minute cold wait for my next conveyance so decide to enter the imposing Cube and examine their public toilet facilities.  These are adequate and clean but the hand dryer blows only intermittently.  I am not impressed by the public library which is on a gradient alongside a sort of multi-storey car park ramp.
11.10am:         My next carriage arrives, also 10 minutes late, and I become involved in a conversation with two ladies who consider the Internet to be one of the roots of much evil.  The carriage driver takes us on a tour of half of Corby, including the Asda superstore for non-Internet devotees.  Several simple country-folk board here for the remainder of a bouncing ride over humps and holes, with which Corby is plentifully endowed.  The driving technique for these is high speed and almost no braking.
11.25am approx:         Disembark at Rockingham and enter tea room to be greeted by large assembly of cyclists some of whom will endeavour to beat my next vehicle to Gretton.  Rockingham is no warmer than were Rothwell or Corby.
12.19pm approx:         Next carriage, quaintly named Centrebus, arrives and I join the existing passenger on board.  I fail to notice the sign on the rear warning me that the driver’s other vehicle is a Porsche.  It soon appears that this bus is supercharged and I’m treated to a hair-raising ten minutes as we career along the valley road to Gretton.  A lorry appears suddenly in front of us on a blind bend and both vehicles take to the bank.  We are perilously close to the ditch and I have cause to wonder why I didn’t choose a seat on the offside.  Tree branches crash and scrape along the side before we regain the tarmac. Our demonic progress continues, clods of mud flying from under the wheels and the bus vibrates alarmingly as the driver extracts every last watt from the roaring engine.  We pass a cycling companion on a bend on Gretton hill and swerve in quickly in the face of an oncoming car.  My low heart rate is probably now dangerously high at about 50.  Centrebus should issue monitors and smelling salts to fragile passengers.
12.30pm:         Quivering with fright I stagger off the bus outside the village hall and enter for some soothing soup.   Am mollified by winning a pair of ladies’ mittens and a tube of hand-cream in the raffle.   Avoid stacking tables and chairs by having to leave in time for the next bus.
1.25pm:           I join two ladies in the bus shelter and await the arrival of the 1.30 bus.  It fails to appear and I am offered a lift into Corby by a couple from the lunch.  This is fortuitous since my next bus is on time and I would have missed it.
2.06pm:           I board the Peterborough express stage and travel in comfort on the lush Italian leather seats as far as Oundle.   The experience of descending the bends between Upper and Lower Benefield is always a thrill on a double decker but I have to admit to preferring it on a trike.
2.40pm:           Arrive Oundle and walk through the churchyard and along Glapthorn Road to Abbott House Care Home.  I discover that the derelict building alongside the road is not it and that the Home lies behind out of sight.  I am taken upstairs to a lounge where Steve Blyth is asleep in an armchair in front of a TV set with the sound very low and sub-titles allowing the action to be followed.  How considerate, I think.   Steve wakes up and I spend an hour with him recalling the good old days and bringing him up to date with club affairs.  For half an hour a snow storm blows around outside and two silver birches sway wildly in the great wind.   The staff, who all appear very friendly, offer me a cup of tea and biscuits.  A female inmate enters from the adjacent lounge, treating us to her very low opinion of the armchair occupants within.  I guess she hasn’t been offered a chair.  She manages, with her Zimmer, to safely negotiate me and my jacket, which is lying on the floor, and insists I have only one biscuit.  The staff  tell me I may have as many as I like. I take only one.  Steve is very pleased to see me and seems quite comfortable, anticipating that this may be his home from now on.
4.20pm:           Leave Abbott House and walk back to the Market Place where the X4 eventually arrives and I get on to begin the two stage journey home.  Drizzle is falling and it feels even colder than before.
5.10pm:           Arrive back in Corby where I decide to alight and catch the direct bus back to Rothwell rather than continuing on X4 to Kettering.  I now have 30 minutes to wait for the No. 19.  Macdonalds beckons but I decide that the waiting queue and a too hot beaker of tea might cause me to miss the bus.  I walk across to the Cube again and pass the time in conversation with the library attendants.  It turns out that the female of the pair once lived in Mellis and cycled to work in Eye.  Now she runs and may perhaps gravitate to triathlon.  When bussing one does meet different and interesting people, it’s a whole new world.
5.40pm:           The No. 19 arrives and takes on several passengers, so not everyone drives to work.   It’s dark now but I manage to identify Rothwell when it appears.  I walk home, calling at the Co-op for something for dinner.
6.30pm:           Finally arrive home congratulating myself on completing such a long and tiring journey without the aid of a minder.   Prepare a hot drink and eventually put my meal on to cook.
12.10am:         Wake up suddenly, remembering that I had watched most of the 10.0pm news and switched the oven off.  The TV goes off automatically.  Forgot about the steamer cooking my green veg.  Remove black pan from stove, transfer complete meal to a plate and place in fridge for tomorrow.  Stagger upstairs to bed.  The end of a perfect day.   What a relief and a pleasure it will be to cycle again.




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