The rare luxury of an entire day free, and a vague plan to ride 50 miles… but I run through the list of likely routes and decide that they would all involve too many main roads, or steep hills. Instead, I go into town.
Town is predictably boring, and I come home and decide to go for a ride after all.
I know a little car park next to the Grantham Canal - I used it a few times about four years ago - but I drive past the entrance before I see it. I take a few turns and end up parking next to the canal near to Cotgrave, about seven miles out from the River Trent at Nottingham
The Grantham Canal runs from Nottingham, near to the famous Trent Bridge Cricket Ground, to Grantham, birthplace of Sir Isaac Newton, and Margaret Thatcher. It is 33 miles (about 53 km) long and follows a fairly flat course through the Vale of Belvoir (pronounced “beaver”). It was completed in 1797 for a cost of just under £120,000. You can hardly buy a house for that now. It has been out of use for longer than I can remember.
I am on the 700c, with 102 mm cranks, and a new battery in the computer, which has been recalibrated for the smaller (28 mm) tyre. I mount and ride off along the crushed grit towpath. I can remember when this path was mud and grass, but the canal is now a “linear recreational facility” and has been tidied up quite a bit. This means I make good speed.
Every so often, there is a road to cross (the canal is culverted at these place) and there is a “wiggle gate” to stop motorcycles. I would just about be possible for me to ride through these, but I’d be bound to UPD at least one time in four, and as today’s project is to cover distance, I decide to use these wiggle gates as opportunities to dismount and take the pressure off my seat. Being a pedant, I carry the uni the short distance each time so that the computer doesn’t give a false reading. How sad is that?
For the first 13 miles (21 km) the route is almost perfectly flat, with a good rolled grit path. For much of the way, the canal is completely choked with reeds and bull rushes. Where the water is visible, it is the same colour as the stuff you get in an American hotel when you ask for a cup of tea. In places, there are mature willow trees growing in the centre of the dried up canal bed.
As I get further into the Vale of Belvoir, though, the sections of water become more prevalent, and I see swans, geese, ducks, coots and moorhens. I sometimes see small fish in the shallows, but fail to see any pike - they are probably lurking in the shade under the weed. The sun is shining (I forgot my sun cream) and there are dragonflies everywhere, some mating in flight - nice trick if you can do it. The hedge next to the towpath is full of hawthorn and elderberry, with occasional willows.
At one of the wiggle gates, there is a notice drawing my attention to an avenue of 184 poplar trees, planted after the Great War in memory of the local landowner’s son, and 183 members of his regiment who died in the battle of the Somme. Elsewhere, I see a pillbox (gun emplacement) from the next war, just over 20 years later.
After thirteen miles, I come to the end of the rolled grit path, and the towpath continues as unmown grass, without even a well-trodden footpath to follow. I decide to continue, but find it hard going. Conscious of the distance I intend to cover, I try to keep the speed up, and this results in three UPDs, and one failed freemount (oh, the shame!). At the next bridge, I bail out, deciding to ride on the road for a bit.
I ride about six miles of mainly narrow country lanes, with occasional wider faster roads. On the narrow country lanes, many of the cars fail to slow down, or even to pull over a little to pass me. It might be a compliment to my riding skills, but somehow I suspect it’s just arrogance. This is a part of the world where the Beautiful People live: gym membership, perfect teeth and tans, and big houses, and big gardens in small villages devoid of villagers. The farm workers can no longer afford to buy properties where they work. Meanwhile, the people who do live there travel to work in the city in their big (usually German) cars, and spend their weekends playing at country pursuits. In this context, “country pursuits” does include horse riding, driving a 4 wheel drive, and maybe a bit of shooting, but it doesn’t include back-breaking work in all weathers, starvation wages, and year after year without holidays.
Be that as it may, the last part of this section of the ride is a steepish climb up quite a busy road towards Belvoir Castle. This isn’t a real castle, which is why it looks so much like a castle ought to. I’ve put a link to the web site at the bottom of this post.
Belvoir Castle is closed (for a wedding) but at £10 admission, I hadn’t intended to go in anyway. I am disappointed to find that the shop is shut and there are no refreshments available. I feast on a Snickers and drink some water from my Camelbak. My computer shows I’ve ridden 19.96 miles in 2 hours and 6 minutes. That’s near enough to 10 miles an hour for me, given the section of unmown grassy towpath, and the steep climb at the end.
From the castle, I set off along a different road, climbing further, with beautiful beech woods to my left, the sun shining through onto a floor of dried golden leaves. This is England as it should be, with no braying youths in hoodie tops, no broken bus stops… as I reach the top of the climb, the view opens out, and I can see for miles across farmland.
Riding along the road at the top of the hill, I see three club bicyclists riding towards me. I am signalling to turn right across their path, so I hold back. I hear one shout, “How the f*** does he change gear on that?” This rather spoils the surprise when, 5 seconds later, he asks me, “How the bloody hell do you change gear on that?” Sigh! if only I had a Guni! He doesn’t wait for his answer, so I ride down the side road, past more woodland, until I see an enticing looking bridle way.
The bridle way is a mistake. Well, to be precise, attempting to ride it on a 700c x 28 road tyre is a mistake, because when I get to the deep wet mud, I lose all traction and have a number of messy falls. I decide to dismount for the wettest bits. I prefer to dismount neatly by stopping and stepping off the back, but when I do this, the wheel locks and the uni skids, nearly depositing me on my backside in the mud.
Even less wisely, I speculate that a steeper side path will be less muddy, and therefore easier to ride. It is less muddy, but the steepness of the descent makes traction even more of an issue… and there are roots as well.
I take the next wide track that follows the contour back towards the road. When I UPD, I invent a new mount: I like to do a static mount with a very slight push forwards. This allows me to put some weight on the back pedal. On this surface, and with this tyre, as soon as I put weight on the pedal, the wheel rotates - almost as if I were doing a rollback, but the uni doesn’t roll back, it just skids on the spot. The effect is that the pedal lowers me towards the seat somewhat quicker than expected. I invite you to share my pain.
Back on the road there is a long steep descent at about the limit of what I can manage on these 102 mm cranks. After that, it’s just a long slog along various lanes as I zigzag around the Vale of Belvoir trying to find access to the canal bank again.
By now, I’ve covered about 26 miles (41 km) and I’m starting to notice the seat rather too much. In fact, I’m in considerable pain, and worrying about whether I will make it back to the car in good health. It feels suspiciously like I’m developing blisters on my buttocks! I am also wearing my new BMX style shoes, and am noticing that the balls of my feet are tingling from prolonged contact with the pedals, and I have to keep scrunching my feet up to restore circulation. I reach the stage where I’m dismounting every couple of miles. This is bad.
Eventually, I find access to the canal again, and I realise I’m only about 5 miles from the car. I note with some disappointment that the computer only shows 30 miles, which means I will be far short of my planned 50 miles.
I wish I had more time to go riding around the countryside in Notts, I’d have to drag you along though if there was to be a good write up of them.