Raise Metabolism Today! No Fees!
I might be about to jet off for two weeks in the sun, but this 'getting fit' malarkey is preying on my flabby mind. I did sweet FA on Tuesday - to be honest, I think my bloated, battered body was still recovering from the excesses of Bank Holiday. And so on Tuesday, I awoke with an intended new vigour.
By 930am my car was at KwikFit getting a new rear nearside tyre. I'd noticed a slow puncture while in London, but it seemed to be OK if I regularly pumped it back up. Having dropped it off, I walked through Hurst Street and The Arcadian area of town - these night-time areas, they're strange at 10am, when all the life has been sucked out of them - and on towards Digbeth, where the bike shop is. Repeating the attempts of Monday, I handed over my keys and cards and went off swooping around Digbeth on what I knew was going to be the right bike for me. The bike is a Cannondale, the model is a Bad Boy. It's black, light, solid, no-messing. 27 gears. So far, I have used about three or four of those 27. My mind cannot imagine the hill that requires me to be in lowest gear. Shudder. The bloke needed half an hour or so to get the bike ready to go. I wandered down to the Custard Factory and mooched in their shops - they've got lots of lovely stuff too, from sheesha bars to hairdressers to top-end hifi shops and record shops. Such a nice vibe around there. Medicine Bar, like Hurst Street, seems odd, all shut up and inactive.
I picked the bike up at 11am and rode home. It nearly killed me. OK, it was a traffic run, and with my backpack on, I couldn't see much over my shoulder. Riding back via Hurst Street, I shot up Hill Street to the side of New Street Station and The Pallasades Shopping Centre, before cutting under Sutton Street Queensway, up past the Atkins building and along Holliday Street, under the bridge, right into Granville Street and home. I was drenched in sweat, panting like an old dog, and by the time I'd actually carried the vehicle up two floors, I was ready to collapse in the shower. My head and legs were tingling, probably each desperately trying to remember the last time they ever did anything like that...well, get used to it, both of you.
Once my heartrate had returned to a resting state, I examined the book of Birmingham & The Black Country bike rides that I got at the shop, as well as starting my magnum opus: putting all of the local canal routes in on Google Earth. I started with the central Birmingham stuff, but soon realised that I should commit to each canal route in it's entirety - and so developed my city-centre ideals further afield. First, I did Birmingham to Worcester, amazingly known as the Birmingham & Worcester Canal. That's about 30 miles. Then I did Birmingham to Stratford-upon-Avon (yes, The Stratford Canal) at 25 miles. I notice that this canal passes not awfully far from from my Mum's village, Henley in Arden. I foresee a bike ride to Mum's. I quickly slot in the Wolverhampton and Walsall lines, plus all the old canal loops on the Wolverhampton line. There is a lot of history to uncover, here...
I was beginning to wonder when my car might be ready when Jimmy (Asian) called from KwikFit to tell me it was all ready. I walked down there for 1pm, collected the car and went straight to the garage for a clean. I always usually put my car through the automatic washer with the whirring Dougals that spank your vehicle clean. Today, I was in shorts and t-shirt, so nabbed a proper, manual jet-wash - any man will tell you they do a much better job, largely because you're not leaving all the decisions to a machine. And she looked spanking. Did I use the word 'spank' too often in this paragraph?
Home and some more Google Earth canal retention, before meeting the accountant to cover off business, freelance and personal financial matters. Didn't tell her about the bike. Best not to. It'll only upset her.
I'm due to meet the missus to view another flat with her at 530, which leaves me a couple of hours from now. So, despite the blood, sweat and tears of my debut journey on it, I get the bike out and head out to the canal at The Mailbox. Taking a right, I head out on the Birmingham & Worcester towards Birmingham University and Selly Oak. This canal route passes many of my childhood nooks and crannies: from The Vale halls of residence where we used to walk the dog and go sledging in winter; to the Somerset Road bridge, just up from the house; under Pritchatts Road bridge, which I'd pass over each day on the way to school. Then you're through the University campus, past the hospital, the rail station, and you're in Selly Oak, behind the OVT, the Soak.
There's a nice little pull up off-route, which I investigate. In an alarming Health & Safety transgression, I was able to touch the base of an overhead power line, and could have quite easily got into the sub-station beyond, all bulbous, shiny and humming. The area around here is strewn with empty bottles, spliff ends and used syringes. That's the thing about canals: they are the unseen routes of the city, like looking for rats in the sewers...
I cycle a little further on, before I come to a sign that tells me it's 5km to Gas Street Basin - which is where I started. Content with the idea of a 10km ride, I cycle a little further and stop on a bench for a fag. Only, I can't find them. Shit. I've left them back there next to where I was sitting, the place I left when oddballs started walking through the area, looking at me shiftily. I get back on, and cycle the short distance back to my stop-off. Fags and lighter are where I left them. I collect, ignite and start back.
Now, this was a bit annoying. On my return, I noticed that my handlebars were a bit wobbly. I could rotate the crosspiece towards and away from me. After a little further, I could slide it left to right in its clamp. Hmm. So, about this pre-delivery check you did on the bike...I get back to base with ten minutes before I'm due to collect the lass. I head home and nab my Allen key set, and sort the problem out. I don't believe that I've shaken it loose. I just think the servicing dude needs to sort out his biceps a bit.
I meet the lady, who is very impressed with it. Her appointment has been cancelled (again) and so we pootle up to Brindleyplace, 'round the back of the National Sealife Centre (handily placed in land-locked central England) and home. We have some splendid beer-battered cod, chunky chips and mushy peas, before settling down to watch Tsotsi, the Academy-Award-Winning Johannesburg drama about a bad boy trying to go straight. It's brilliant. I can highly recommend it. The missus was slightly taken aback when I said that the townships in the movie look like the Bangkok Hilton compared to those you'd see along Agege Road in Lagos, Nigeria. One day, I might take her there just to show her what human horror can really be like.
Yesterday, I went out around mid afternoon and covered another 17km, going from Brindleyplace to Newhall Flight, down and down, on to Aston, around to Typhoo Wharf and then out towards Tamworth. I got as far as Heartlands, where the big gas tanks are, before heading back. Coming back was hard - the glee of my downhill cruising on the outward journey replaced by, largely, an uphill stretch all the way. But, what a rush when you finally get back to your home canal level.
Slightly boring aside: obviously, canals are at different levels around the country. Locks are the gates that stop a higher level canal's water running off into the lower levels and drying out the higher. You will find basins all the way along canal routes, which are used to top up the level you're on. To call the British canal system a feat of engineering falls rather short. Anyway, I live on what is called the Birmingham Level, and where I got to was on the Walsall Level. I think there's about 100m height difference, so that's what I zoomed down, and what I panted back up.
Canals attract an odd mix of people. There are your 'nice people': walkers, some with dogs, joggers, runners, cyclists. Then there are the 'odd people': young lads who look like they've just dropped off a score on their bike; badass-looking mofos who just stare at you; hobos; winos; druggies. Thankfully, on the 30km I've ridden in the last two days (?!), I've seen no less than four bike cops, all dayglo yellow but carrying a badge. That's reassuring.
Anyway, it's lunchtime and I've been rabbitting for ages. I'll be off down beyond Selly Oak today and back - I'm gonna get to the junction with the Stratford canal and come back, should be around the 20k mark. God, I'd never even consider running that far.
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