Cronies, Kelpies, Canals, Cobbles…. and Cold.
A tale of friendship, discovery and intrepid adventure… with twists and turns to titter and tickle.
A reluctant recount
I hadn’t planned on capturing the events of this mini adventure, but given it proved infinitely more experimental than I could ever have imagined — and also for cathartic purposes — I felt the need to share. Thoughts of keeping schtum about this entire episode were quickly dismissed anyway, given my travel companion’s widely-known inability to maintain control of his tongue is matched only by his equally infamous lack of bowel control (another trait of which I was reminded during this epic visit).
Welcome to Edinburgh!
I was thrilled to welcome me old mucka Glenn — the source of many a tale and literal butt of many jokes over the years — as my first proper guest in my (latest) new home town. I had this exciting day of adventure in mind but thought I’d keep the destination a secret until we arrived to build suspense, anticipation and general euphoria from my buddy. Readers who know Captain Fantastic — aka Grumpy Glenn — will appreciate the underwhelming level of enthusiasm displayed at the prospect of such explorations, but still I persisted.
Off we crank
Days of blue skies and sunshine had made way for gloomy overcast and cold, damp air, but this wouldn’t stop us from heading out on the bikes for our day of discovery, with Glenn reminding me this was his ‘first big ride in two years’ with metronomic regularity. I noted the excuse that may pave the way for later bike-bonks and duly switched off after the third recount.
We followed the great cycle paths of Edinburgh westwards, passing through parks, country estates, and less palatial housing developments -catching up on the events of the last year whilst I regularly questioned my route-finding skills. How difficult can it be to stay on the same path? Very, it seems. ‘This way… no, that way, no, yes… oh I don’t know!’ Noticing we were about to cross the magnificent Queensferry Crossing to Fife, yet knowing our destination was most-definitely ‘this side of the sea’, I flagged a passing scooter-riding hipster who pointed us in the right direction for our first discovery and photo opportunity.
The pretty town of Queensferry marked a fitting spot to take a break with fabulous views over the Firth of Forth and beyond to Fife. I considered the concept of painting the bridge that spans this vast expanse, dismissing it as somewhat onerous. Regrouped and ready to go and I did what I could to curtail Glenn’s excitement as we headed off towards the next spot on our two-wheeled tourist trail.
Lording it up
I was thrilled to see Lord Glenn looking rather impressed as we approached Blackness Castle, a fifteenth-century fortress balanced on the shores of the Firth. Splashing out on the delights of a machine coffee we mooched around this impressive spot, filled with wonder and awe as we posed for selfies and dodged appearances in those of fellow visitors. Acknowledging that castle-dwellers of bygone times probably didn’t get out on roadbikes much, I just about managed to avoid injury as my cleated shoes skidded across boardwalks and cobbles, narrowly avoiding head to portcullis contact.
Onwards
Happily caffeine-fuelled we marched forth towards the piece de resistance, traversing identikit 1950s estates as I, again, questioned my navigational skills. Just as I was about to admit I may have messed up, there they were — the Kelpies — their majestic thirty-metre high silver heads towering over the suburban roofs, shimmering and twinkling their invitation for a closer look. Glenn’s excitement was off the scale by this point to the extent of an eye crinkle. Result.
Canters and canteens
Parking our steeds, we shuffled our way to one of my lifelong pleasures: the visitor centre/café/shop. These places seriously never fail to excite me. I really am a cheap date. We fuelled on another of my simple pleasures — the ‘half and half’ sandwich — (which my dinner date was clearly told he would partake), accompanied by some classic hors d’oeuvre (crisps) and delightfully washed down with a pot of tea. Receiving a warm and wonderful welcome from the volunteers-in-training ahead of the new season we headed out for a wander around the brilliant Helix parkway and on for another photo opportunity. Cue the no-doubt well-worn snaps of ‘supporting’ Kelpie heads with much mirth.
I’d already decided we’d head back via the canals to make this a nice and scenic circular route. True to form, I somehow ‘lost’ the canal out of Falkirk — cue expletive-laden circuits of suburbia — before eventually rediscovering the Union Canal, somehow missing the not-to-be-missed Falkirk Wheel in the process. One for another time.
Chilly cockles
We rattled, chatted, laughed and wobbled our way along the canal towpath — a highlight being the six-hundred metre Falkirk tunnel where I prayed there would be no lurking obstacles to upend my peloton-leading role. Reaching a heavily cobbled aqueduct, Glenn decided to walk but I didn’t fancy my chances click-clacking and skidding along in cleats and, anyway, my shiny new gravel bike had this sussed!
… for about fifty metres that is, until I wobbled and decided to take refuge against the aqueduct wall… which rather unkindly propelled me back at speed across the towpath. With a strange sense of acceptance and resignation I hurtled headlong towards the edge before plunging straight in to the freezing water. I went under for what felt like an eternity, ‘blub, blub, blub’ ringing in my ears and the light of the sky reflecting off the ripples above my head. I eventually bobbed to the surface to see Glenn’s panicked face and hands reaching to my aid. Like anyone whose life is flashing before them, I bellowed what could have been my profound last words: ‘Grab the bike! The bike man!’
Flashbacks
With priorities sorted it was my turn to be hauled over the cobbles to safety. Not the most elegant of visions, though I honestly would never have made it out without Glenn’s safe pair of hands. Let’s face it, I couldn’t even get out of the deep end from the school baths, despite Miss Rich’s helpful gesture of granting the entire class prime viewing rights for my vain attempts to haul my pubescent frame out — all the time refusing my whimpered requests to use the steps. Permanently scarred.
So there you have it. That’s where the ‘cold’ came in to this adventure. I was inexplicably determined to continue the ride home; perhaps the effects of my tumble had messed with my thought processes. I dismissed Glenn’s repeated (and completely rational) suggestions of finding the nearest station, at that point finding the whole episode hilarious. How I laughed as water streamed from my gloves — and every orifice — leaving a watery trail in my wake. I thought of what a fun story this one will be. Until the shock, cold — and sense — hit me, and I started to shake so violently that I felt I might combust. I lurched in to drama queen mode — shouting my need for an ambulance and insisting we find a hospital. With none in sight we graciously found Linlithgow station, treating confused/amused/startled schoolchildren to a first-hand demonstration of how not to use the canals with my bluey hue and sopping-wet gear.
All aboard
Safely on board the train I headed straight to the loo. Overhearing Glenn recounting tales of the heroic rescue to our fellow passengers. I felt slightly less pathetic as another cyclist (who’d sensibly taken the train back from Falkirk) reassured me my dip wasn’t such a rare occurrence. I’ve since read numerous warnings of the need for caution — and dismounts on aqueducts — and will most certainly be infinitely less-cavalier next time round. The train ride was thankfully brief and in no time we were running towards a waiting taxi who kindly agreed to take us — and our bikes — home.
Reheated cockles
I was bundled — half-clothed — in to a warm bath; any modesty I had abandoned with my sanity an hour earlier. My colour gradually changed from blue through purple and back to its usual mocha as I sank in to the bath with a piping hot coffee and counting my blessings.
Lessons learned
Take care on the canals — seriously, please don’t be a dick (like I was).
Despite reassurances to the contrary, I fully expect much of West Sussex already know this story. Or a version of it.
My triathlon comeback is on indefinite hold. I don’t do water.
Sometimes it really is best to let the train take the strain.
Glenn has always been a true mate, but is now also up there with Hasselhoff in the hero stakes. Thank you so much my friend. I hope you enjoyed your adventure… but don’t expect a repeat.
