The last footage from my camera is a plaintive shot of me about 8 miles short of Telford, saying something like ‘I knew this was going to be a challenge but not this challenging. This is too hard’.
Day 3 was only supposed to be about 82 miles – shorter than the previous days. It ended up being 92.3 miles.
We slept well in Rugby and I got early to do the blog but just don’t have time to do the vlogs, although I have all this footage on the computer. Our first stop was High Cross (not Highcross) where the Fosse way and Watling Street meet – it is the centre of Roman Britain. It took longer to reach than we thought it might and we passed through the gloriously named Harborough Magma. The day was cloudy and there was a freshness in the air that was cool to the skin, just on the edge between refreshingly cooling and a little too cool. It took us an age to find our rhythm and we checked with locals about directions – one had never even heard of High Cross despite living only 7 miles away – but we finally reached High Cross with Martyn waiting for us.
At first, it seems underwhelming, the place where a minor B road (the Fosse Way) meets the two-lane A5 road (Watling Street) upon which cars hurtle by. However, if you venture to cross the A5, there is a small collection of houses, not enough to be called a village, with an 18th Century ruined column with a Latin inscription on it. Yet, that is not the most interesting part. An organization called CORE (Centre of Roman England) have a collection of boulders, which, if I recall correctly, were taken from the the Fosse way, a bench and a young oak tree to mark the Roman centre. It’s understated and I like it; it’s certainly preferable to having a 70-foot fibre glass centurion standing there, which you have a feeling some states in the US (not all or most of them) might erect to mark the place.
Finally heeding Komoot, our sat-nav, we headed west through Bretford through Bretford and the pretty Coleshill, skirting Coventry until we ended up in Birmingham. I had hoped to avoid such a huge city but Kamoot threaded our way through the leafier parts of the city at first, then along canal footpaths and beneath Spaghetti Junction.
I’m not sure I believe in coincidence but several have happened that are testing my beliefs:
- That we visit Spaghetti Junction and the Birmingham canal network again. Not that big a coincidence, I grant you, but I did expect to see it again from beneath.
- Technology deciding to stop working on 37% power. When we did JogChi in 2018, our Sat-nav then was Garmin, which stopped working by a Manchester canal and was stuck on a screen saying 37% power. Malcolm’s battery pack stopped working, or seemed to stop working, on the same percentage.
• 3. That both Garmin and Komoot, our satnavs would drop us on canal networks: Garmin in Manchester, Komoot in Birmingham, although to be fair to Komoot, it did pick up again later
Canal towpath riding is really attractive, although we did pass the floating body of some large animal (neither of us wanted to look closer to identify it) in the water and a boy fishing for metal with a magnet; he and his friends had already found a machete that day!
Malcolm rides in front with his phone on Komoot normally… but then Malcolm’s phone died. Not powered down. Died (although as I write this the following day and at this very moment, it might just have been resurrected – we’ll see!)
I also have Kamoot, although my set-up is more awkward, but I managed to lead us on to the west of Birmingham but Malcolm was clearly demoralized and ‘lost his spirit’ (in his words) with the loss of his phone.
It’s not my place to talk about it, although if you have read Phil Hewitt’s article about us in the Chichester Observer you will know already, but Malcolm was seriously ill a year ago. Quite rightly, after the exhaustion we felt when getting to Rugby, Malcolm decided he didn’t want to push himself into illness and took a train. I have always known this might be the case and the Roman Roads challenge was always about one, preferably both, of us making the miles.
After alerting Martyn and Malcolm’s wife, Lorri, about him being on the train but without a phone, I pushed on alone.
Komoot then decided to drive me insane, constantly leading me back to canal towpaths, which were far too slow and ended up being rutted mud-paths. I then decided to set Komoot small goals to get me to the next districts out of Birmingham to the west. She didn’t want to play ball. I did two-and-a-half laps around central Dudley and then was led through what was laughably suggested to be a cycle path. This turned out to be a footpath that gradually got more and more overgrown and wild.
I passed what people would call a couple of ‘roadmen’ – young men on electric bikes dressed head-to-toe in black and who cover their faces in masks who, to my mind but I might have been wrong about this, to take an interest in a clearly lost single bloke with electronic equipment on his bike. A couple of minutes later, I heard their electric bikes but I was so deep into a wild footpath they would not have spotted me and, to be fair, maybe they had no interest in me.
I pushed on but Komoot assured me the gate that said ‘Private Land. Trespassers Keep Out’ was a cycle path! She then wanted me to go up an overgrown railway embankment. No. The bike had already taken a hammering and I was already bleeding with thorns and briars.
I eventually managed to find a road and picked it, just seeing where it would lead me. All the while, the power on my phone was fading. No problem, I’ll just plug in the battery pack… except I had the wrong connecting cable. Damn, I’ll just stay on the roads.
Telford seemed to take forever over what would have been a beautiful landscape of a quiet B road with lots of hills and I was in Shropshire. Now I had another issue – no more water. No problem. I’d find a garage – there weren’t any. I’d find a house. Very few houses. All lights off.
My energy levels were fading and it was the last light of day and I still had not reached Telford, let alone Shrewsbury! In a fit of desperation, I threw everything on the ground and tried to find a way to charge my phone. No luck.
Dehydrated and exhausted, I felt like sitting down beside a farm gate and just staying there. No tears, just blank exhaustion.
I eked out the last drops of water and carried on. Eight miles later a garage hove into view – it was closed and that was crushing. About 5 miles later, another garage appeared and it was open.
It’s astonishing how a bit of fluid and food can raise the spirits. I was a couple of miles outside Telford and, after discussing where Shrewsbury was with people at the garage, I felt I could manage the final push and phoned Martyn to tell him so.
My phone was on less than 10% now. I had to save it. Unfortunately, I picked a road that was far too fast. Komoot led me to a new housing estate where there was no road. I navigated my way out of Telford but needed Komoot again. But this time, she was leading me down bridle tracks and footpaths that were pitch black. Then into country lanes with road signs and no houses.
Shrewsbury is about 15 miles from Telford and now I was 8 miles out of Telford towards Shrewsbury and my bike was going over roots and branches in pitch darkness. My phone was on about 2% now. I tried to look at the map and Komoot seemed to go haywire. Pitch darkness. No houses and no roads.
I called Martyn and said to him ‘I can’t do this. I can’t find my way. Would you come and get me?’ The crushing part was I was only about 7 miles away from Shrewsbury. He asked me where I was and I couldn’t tell him. I had to find some landmark or road sign – nothing.
Finally, I found a road and just cycled it for about 7 miles. No houses, except ones in pitch darkness. I was now without Komoot and on about 1% phone charge. Eventually, I came across a sign to Telford and took it.
With the last charge of the phone, I managed to tell Martyn and Malcolm now in a car to collect me ‘I’m at Telford, Asda’. And my phone died through lack of power.
I felt defeated. I had cycled the miles to Shrewsbury but had not reached it. Just outside Asda, I saw the best and worst of humanity: a drunk who called me a See You Next Tuesday and then a young man in a car who drove past three times to ask if I was okay. Telford street pastors came by to check on me. They offered me a hot drink, which I declined because I thought Martyn and Malcolm would be here any minute.
Absolutely defeated, I was watching people leave a local hotspot in Telford with very scant clothing, so why was I beginning to shiver? I draped my coat over my knees and waited.
t felt like a long wait. Malcolm and Martyn turned up and put everything in the back of the car. Driving to Shrewsbury felt crushing and a bit numb, as I had more than cycled that distance; I just hadn’t reached the destination. I crashed into bed…
Today, day 4, was supposed to be the longest mileage of any stage. Not any more. Malcolm is wisely taking a rest day and I am resting this morning. This afternoon I will cycle the 45 miles to Chester, which m arks the end of Watling Street, and then Martyn will drive us to Lancaster. In three days, we have cycled just over 294 miles.
I’ve heard Storm Floris awaits us on Monday – we may need to re-evaluate tomorrow.
Defeat? Didn’t complete the challenge? That’s up to you to decide.
Rogues of the Roman Roads 