Though pretty level it was a flat day indeed. Possibly the hardest day, not through physical effort, more through having to pedal through Wigan. If ever a terrain was hostile to the bicycle, this is it. Though I nearly killed myself on dartmoor, I nearly died in Wigan, mostly by losing the will to live.
And then we saw the Bowland Hills and all is right again, plus a fabulous guest house in Scrotum near Preston and tomorrow: The Lakes.
Dave (just Dave) came to our aid on the van, fixing back on some trim at no charge for which we are most grateful, as we are for all the many roadside donations.
Cally was stopped by the Cheshire Constabulary, for meandering across a red light, a small matter considering Paul Benney drove through St. Helens with both van side doors open; he had picked his staff well, all were crack shots and the van, like some Helicopter Gun Ship cleared our path of footpads, ne’er-do-wells, oiks and youths brandishing their cans of Old Wifebeater Lager and Energy Drinks. Bandit country.
