The Highs and Lows of DiA’s Sponsored Cycle Ride 2005 - Ruth Bergan and Elinor Wakefield

DAY 1: Birmingham to Burton-on-Trent Following the necessary photo-op outside Birmingham’s town hall at around 10am, we cycled out of Birmingham along quiet canal paths, with Canada Geese for company, past the rusty metal structures of disused factories and the noise of reprocessing plants. From there, we turned into Birmingham’s urban sprawl. Away from the canals, we criss-crossed the M5, which was never out of earshot even in the relative countryside of suburbia’s high water mark. Faced with the sea of identical semi-detached houses, Ruth wondered if the whole trip would consist of one large Barrett estate, however the beautiful Litchfield cathedral marked the start of countryside proper, with thatched cottages and rolling fields. At some point after Litchfield, late afternoon, we were over-taken by a man riding a pedal cycle complete with battery-powered motor...

Burton-on-Trent saw the return of the industrial landscape, one of the first landmarks to come into view being a power station striped with the orange, pink and purple of the sunset. When we finally spotted the Swann Inn at around 6.30, framed by a rainbow, I think we had some idea of what it feels like to see an oasis in the desert. The large plate of home-made meatballs and pasta, and the regulars’ generous donation of £35 reinforced this impression.

DAY 2: Burton-on-Trent to Chesterfield Day 2 saw a real change of scenery as we headed into Derbyshire. The hills began in earnest and we realised we’d been lulled into a false sense of security by the relatively flat West Midlands or Staffordshire. However aching legs were a small price to pay for the beautiful scenery, including Derby and its surrounding villages. Our route took us along disused railway lines, past rivers, a reservoir, a Roman road, and a few Easter bunnies! We coped like a pair of pros with our first puncture (i.e. swearing a lot and blaming the bike shop) but didn’t lose too much time. We were both relieved to see Chesterfield’s twisted spire and felt compelled, in the spirit of DiA, to finish the day with a curry.

DAY 3: Chesterfield to Wakefield (or ‘well, I did try to tell you….’). Heading north from Chesterfield saw us back in an industrial landscape, this time of chemical factories and metal works. We turned towards Sheffield on a long disused railway that followed the canal. Many of the hills had the ‘too-perfectly-formed’ shape that suggests they too owe their existence to the mining industry. Towards mid-morning we entered Sheffield’s barren, semi-urban suburbs that sprawl over the hills between the M1 and a web of other dusty arteries. Another puncture prolonged our time in the land of shell-suits, quad bikes, broken glass and graffiti. We ploughed on through Sheffield’s massive factories and two disused cooling towers that stand guard over Sheffield’s ‘double decker’ motorway. Yet another disused railway line finally took us out of Sheffield – we were sandwiched between a working railway line, the canal and the M1 to our right. We passed a few of what Elinor described as ‘semi-derelict end-of-towns’, with shoe factories and more slag heaps; but as it began to get dark we finally got a glimpse of fields, farmhouses and a few March lambs. Having battled our way through a rainstorm, we finally made it to the Redbeck Motel. Our requests for fish, chips and mushy peas and salad, Elinor’s search for ‘the no-smoking area’, and the fact that we were wandering around in our stocking feet (squelchy trainers drying over the radiator) with sweaters from our respective Oxbridge colleges (Pimms anyone?) meant we were met with looks reminiscent of those the arrival of green-skinned, three-eyed women from Mars might inspire.

DAY 4: Wakefield to Bradford. Despite Day 3’s adventures in the north’s industrial heartland, the puncture and our last-minute soaking, nothing could take away from the fact that this was the last day, we’d nearly made it and neither of us had had to start walking like John Wayne. We chose to stick with the canal path as long as possible because although longer, they were obviously much flatter than following the roads. Mr. Beeching and Mrs. Thatcher had again ensured that we were able to follow disused railway lines for a long time as we headed into Leeds. It was slightly surreal to reach Ruth’s home town (just over halfway), stop and have a pub lunch and not be able to just get on the bus and go home…. So we continued along the canal towards Bradford.

Bradford determined to extract every last bit of energy with what seemed an endless hill, and the fog cruelly crushed Ruth’s dream of spotting the town hall from the top of the hill and speeding triumphantly down towards it. A final photo in front of the town hall, and a slightly random demand for a hug from a teenager who thought his home town was a dump and didn’t know where Birmingham was (and therefore couldn’t really appreciate our own excitement at being there), ended our 165 mile expedition.