Chapter 21 Dangerously Healthy by Malcolm Birkenshaw

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Chapter 21.

`Bloody marvellous, it'll be like cycling two hundred miles
carrying the weight of a spare bloody bike fixed to my legs,' my
shouts pursuing his shrinking car. But it was too late, one last
puff of a distant exhaust and he was gone, leaving me stuck, unable
to say no, M.S. sufferers needing the funds for research and he
ruddy-well knew it. `Better have an early night, then,' I returned
to our house and started to get ready for bed.

`Dad, there's someone at the door,' Claire called from the
kitchen.

`Hello,' I said, at the door, after refastening my flies.

`Do you know anyone round here with a car?' It was Mack, from
the back, standing on our top step, well aware that Lena's Morris
Minor was parked in the drive.

`Have you broken down?'

`Not really. It's my lad, he's borrowed my car and locked
himself out.'

`I'm too busy,' Lena called.

`It's not far, seven miles,' he said, over my shoulder. `This
side of Cawood.'

`I'm still too busy. Martin can take you, if he likes.'

I looked at the clock. `I shouldn't, but, all right,' it was
still early evening.

We chugged along the lanes, winding between water-meadows having
left Bishopswood behind. `There he is,' Mack pointed, his son was
practising golf at one end of a football pitch where the fields
became dryer.

I eased my foot off the accelerator. The car lurched. Just a
coincidence, I thought, for otherwise it is what I imagined it would
feel like if a front wheel had come off. Best do nothing, remain
nonchalant, for we were travelling quite nicely and it was best that
Mack should not know that I harboured such thoughts. But there “was”
something wrong, with a noise as though the chassis was scraping
along. I looked between my feet, relieved that there was no sign of
the road coming through. Only then did I glance at my passenger. He
was sitting bolt upright, gripping his seat, eyes bulging, his feet
digging into the dashboard, trying to apply the brakes despite every
pedal being on my side.

As soon as the car slid to a halt he leaped out, remaining at a
distance until after it had failed to burst into flames. `Your front
suspension's collapsed,' he shouted, having eventually risked
looking under the chassis. `That's all that's wrong, apart from the
paint.'

That's all that's wrong! Lena's Morris Minor was like a
knackered horse down on its knees. I restarted the engine and
reversed, dragging its nose onto the verge. `It can wait for a
garage to collect it tomorrow,' I said, locking its doors. `Better
phone the police when I get home, though. Don't want knocking up
during the night,' and with that we got into Mack's car.

My early night was gone, and from the look on Lena's face she
was a mite less than pleased, though I was unable to tell what she
was actually thinking. `It's an ill wind,' I smiled, confident of
cheering her up. `At least it didn't happen whilst “you” were
driving.' Yet cheer there was none, this wind of good fortune
blowing cool. `It's got nothing to do with me cycling to London,' I
defended, as though I was to blame.

She remained unimpressed, said nothing, just went to bed,
leaving me to telephone Tom and leave him to arrange for a garage to
collect and repair her car whilst I was away.

Only the birds were about next morning when I took my bike from
its shed, having knocked up the repairer to collect it last night.
The weather looks a bit noncommittal, I thought, sniffing the cool
air whilst giving my bike a final check over, haze from yesterday's
heat hanging uncertain like a dry dew. Better wear my track suit.

My movement had disturbed Lena. `I don't have a car, so now
I've had to get up early,' she said, demonstrating her martyrdom by
insisting upon cooking me a large breakfast, the monotone in her
voice as warm as a November fog.

`Thanks, thank you very much, but you had no need to...,' as I
said that Ken's car arrived early and started to reverse down our
drive.

`Well, I've cooked it now.'

`OK I only said thank you, meaning that you had no need to
get up early just for me when you've got school to think of.'

`Don't remind me,' she snapped, just as Ken put his head round
our kitchen door.

`Take your time, whilst I'm putting your things in my car,' he
said, `We're in no rush.'

But I knew that we were and I hurried to bolt down my food,
ignoring local wisdom that to cycle on a full stomach is a bad thing
to do. `Thanks again,' I called out. But Lena had gone upstairs to
the children. Once outside I looked up at their bedrooms. Blank
faces were pressed against glass, bemused, with Lena not revealing
even the slightest hint of a smile.

The car's engine almost whistled as we sped along empty roads,
with rush hour yet to begin, and we arrived in Leeds amongst a few
first buses, milkmen and a road sweeping wagon. `We're here,' Ken
pulled in front of the civic steps which were already under the
guard of a commissioner, fresh as a daisy.

`What did you say?' growled an ex-sergeant major with his chest
puffed out as though he "owned" the Town Hall.

`Nothing. We're just here for the start of the...'

`Hang on a minute, hang on a minute,' he marshalled some
photographers away before taking over the supervision of our
unloading. `The Lord Mayor's not here this morning, gentlemen,' he
said, making another attempt to usher them back. But they only
withdrew as far as the statues where they lolled against a lion's
paw, with camera cases untidily slung, their shabby raincoats
creased, carrying the stains of late nights and pubs, waiting for my
official departure. Persistence was rewarded for Councillor Mrs.
Lockwood appeared. Now that's more interesting, they obviously
thought.

`I'll catch up with you,' Prod signalled, leaving me to cope
with Radio Leeds and rush hour traffic.

Even so, I felt immune in my bright orange top, high on my
bike, looking down over the cars, even over the roofs of limousine
height, until I started mixing with drivers who were jostling for
advantage where every lane spider webbed close to the motorway.
`The motorway's still half a bloody mile away,' I swore. Yet
someone impatient continued hooting their horn. `Twit,' I wobbled,
concentrating on hugging the gutter and not falling off, leaving
space so he could pass. The hooting continued. I glared over my
shoulder, just missing a bus. Hell! It was Prod, sporting a grin
all over his face and a sign on his roof, DRIVE WITH CARE - INVALID
CYCLIST, and two damned undersized bikes in the back. `Is this the
support van?' I shouted when he drew level.

`I thought you'd feel safer if I followed you with this.'

Like hell he did, from the comfort of his Escort estate.
`Where's the spares?'

`What spares?'

`Spares, in case I get a bloody puncture, break a chain, or
fall off, bend a wheel.'

`No problem, you can borrow them from one of these.'

`They're both a different damned size.'

But he was suddenly driving too fast to hear, having spotted a
telephone box in the distance where he stopped. When I caught up he
was lost in conversation, presumably sorting things out. I carried
on into the country where the cycling became easier, freed from that
traffic which was bound for the motorway. That was until I sensed a
slight drag. `I hope that's not a breeze blowing up,' I spoke to my
wheels, then was caught by another wind, that of Prod's car shooting
past. TOOT, TOOT, TOOT, he played a tune on his horn and stamped on
his brakes.

I swerved furiously, just in time to prevent customising myself
upon his rear bumpers. `There's a reception waiting for you,' he
bellowed, waving me onto a short cut, leaving me and my tyres
fuming.

Down a steep hill, with rims overheating, I shot across a
junction and between the gates of an old brewery, just missing a
line of staff who were waiting to greet me. `We're only a bottling
plant, now,' the manager apologised, presenting me with a pewter mug
and a generous bag of sponsorship money. Prod's camera clicked.

Their chef limped across, hat tilted over one eye. `Your
breakfast is ready,' he escorted me to his canteen.

`Breakfast? I've already had one,' I smiled, doing my best not
to offend him.

`Oh dear, that is disappointing, I was right looking forward to
meeting you,' he said, wanting to tell me of how he had been a polio
victim since being a lad. `You'd better have these, in case of
emergency,' he said, sort of all cripples together, taking two
lobster salads from the directors' canteen.

`Just what the doctor ordered,' I beamed. `Ideal for healthy
eating.'

He swelled with pride, showing me photographs of his family
just to prove that being disabled need not stop the best things in
life.

`We're running behind schedule,' Prod tugged at my elbow,
concerned that my health should not be overtaxed.

`OK,' I nodded, got on my bike, sprightly and sharp until we
reached the main road where morning breeze had obviously stiffened.
By the time we were skirting the Pennines it had turned into a gale.
Once again Prod shot past and led me onto a short cut before
throwing a wave and driving off, leaving me to struggle not knowing
where the hell I was going. Damn, damn, damn, that blip south of
Greenland had found me, and the rookery rocked.

Two hours behind schedule I arrived at their Tiger Ale brewery
in Sheffield. Prod was waiting in the canteen, but the shutters were
shut. `Don't worry, I've got everything rearranged. The radio and
newspapers will be here any minute to interview you.'

`Never mind the interviews, I'm knackered. Why the hell did you
change the route?'

`It was quicker.'

`Quicker!'

`Yes, definitely, definitely shorter.'

`Quicker for you in a car but not for me on my bike. Why do you
think I planned a detour, using the valleys, avoiding those hills?'

`Well, at least once up them you'd be all right freewheeling
down the other side,' he laughed.

`All right! Freewheeling? I had to stand up when pedalling
downhill because the headwinds were so strong. Don't you ever do
that again,' my temper blew at gale force eight. `Anyway, I need
something to eat. It's a good thing your chef at Oulton gave me two
salads.'

`You took so long to get here I ate one of them whilst waiting.
You can have the other when you're doing the interviews to save time
because we're running behind schedule,' he unfolded his map,
checking my route. I just stared, as though he was not real. Here
was I, marooned with a Burke, forty miles from home, having to carry
on because of being expected in London, banking on the fact that he
could only improve.

Yet almost as soon as we set off he did it again, this time
taking a short cut which led onto the motorway. `Balls to him, I'll
get the hell off this death trap and find my own way to their Kopsow
depot,' forgetting that he had my map in his pocket. Just then the
sun reappeared. I guessed roughly the direction for London and
turned right, landing myself with having to pedal three miles in
bottom gear, being overtaken by a milk float crawling past up what
seemed to be like a near perpendicular gradient. I was legless upon
reaching Kopsow, arriving just in time to miss the last of the
workers leaving.

`It's all right, they've left a generous collection,' Prod
rattled his cash bag, `But they've forgotten about you needing
somewhere to sleep.'

My tongue was stripped naked for words.

`Don't worry, I'll find you somewhere, perhaps in Blyth,' he
again rattled the cash bag before I could express a response.

`Why Blyth?' I asked, cautiously wanting to know what was under
this stone he had laid.

`Ah, well, er,.. Because under the circumstances I don't want
to explain to our brewery's pubs why we'd forgotten to book you a
place,' he sidled, then drove me to stay incognito at a rival
company's inn. `I'll see you first thing,' he dropped me off in the
Blyth Hotel's car park, leaving me to book my own dinner, buy a
couple of pints, and retire bleakly to bed.

Next morning he arrived late, after the bill had been paid, by
which time that damned wind had returned. `Sorry, I've been trying
to finalise the day's arrangements. Unfortunately not everyone was
up. So you'll be all right until Mansfield?' his question gave me
little time to answer.

`I suppose so, if you give me back my map.'

`Right, this is it, I think, see you in the Eagle's Arms.'

`The what?'

`Ask anyone, you can't miss it, right in the middle of
Mansfield, with a sign of a bird without wings holding pints in each
hand,' he slammed his door and drove south.

But the wind was not yesterday's wind. Today it was cool,
bearing clouds, bringing the odd shower, although still blowing
straight into my face. Mind you, he was right about one thing,
despite it taking longer for me to cover each mile, the Eagle's Arms
was easy to find. So was he, chin in hands, elbows holding a
paperback open on the first oaken table, his back to a wallpaper
which was tatty and torn, its original maroon pattern embossed and
hung with a chevron of paintings of Eagles like birds in a flight.
he looked up, `Have a beer, until the reporters arrive,' and yawned,
returning to the paragraph my arrival disturbed.

`No thanks, I'd rather wait until Nottingham,' I sagged onto a
seat, resting whilst expecting what turned out to be phantom
reporters.

`I'll find somewhere better than Nottingham for food,' he
turned his wrist, checking the time, having finished another
chapter. `We're running behind schedule. I'll leave you to follow.'

Two days of battling against wind were beginning to tell, my
legs turning even more slowly by the time I next caught sight of his
car. It was empty, parked in a deserted village, without any human
in sight.

`Oy,' a voice shouted.

I steered left up a low-walled lane, trying to home in on the
shout. `He's sitting in a bloody graveyard! - sorry,' my eyes
raised to the skies, `It's looks like a very nice graveyard,' as
though Prod had realised that I would be arriving dead beat.
`Though perhaps it's only a mirage, the affect of wind on my eyes?'
No, it was real, and so was he, lolling back on the bench in its
garden of rest.

`Here, over here, come and have a break,' he edged through a
wicket gate and lifted my bike over the wall. `The village shop
doesn't sell salads,' he opened a packet of crisps. `But they stock
crisps, ice cream, and lemonade. Help yourself.'

My cornet dripped molten ice cream from my wrist, a wrist
already blue from the day's chill air. I was also exhausted, in need
of more rest, but Prod was uneasy, wanting to get moving. `The next
depot is just over the hill,' he said to encourage me.

`Don't worry, we'll get there, somehow, there's too much money
at stake for me to fail.'

Yet, despite him agreeing to me extending the break, my legs
started to stutter soon after beginning to pedal over the
Leicestershire Wolds. `Just over the next hill!' I chuntered. `Like
hell it is. I'll walk to the top,' I signalled, sending him into a
company panic.

That made him wait, his car not speeding away until he was sure
it was downhill so I should complete today's stage unaided. `London
is still a hell of a distance, though,' I thought, `What with us
being only half way,' these and other doubts blowing through my hair
as I eventually freewheeled into their Loughborough depot.

`Do another circuit for the photographers,' Prod waved me into
their car park. `And again,...... and again,....'

`That's enough,' the mayor stepped forwards, holding his hand
up. `That's enough,' he repeated. He knew all about overexertion,
his friend's husband having M.S. `Take it easy, young man, we've
got a buffet waiting upstairs.'

`Upstairs?' I sagged.

`Don't worry, we'll carry you.'

I shook my head. `No thanks, I just need a short rest. Only a
couple of minutes, on these steps, and then I'll be able to manage,'
I masked my stagger, too proud to be carried.

`Take your time, young man, take your time. These lads will
look after you 'til your ready,' he set off, portly and proud, to
turn upon nearing the top of the stairs. `I'll keep the reception
simmering and everyone happy until you're fit to do justice to the
food we've laid on,' he jollied.

`Thanks,' I smiled, but only for a second, distracted by a
different voice in my ear.

`You've ridden all the way here on this!' exclaimed someone
behind me. It was a cycling reporter, short socked with thighs as
powerful as oak trunks, his cycling shorts city blue-grey since he
had come to interview me on business. `I think your sponsors could
have done better.'

`They did, at least they think they did. It's their public
relations officer who's to blame, probably using company money
earmarked for me to make the budget for his other projects stretch
further.'

`No wonder you suffered,' the reporter lifted my bike, using
both hands. `Apart from its weight didn't you realise that lack of
fluid even stops professionals in their tracks.'

`Well, he bought me the odd beer.'

`Beer! - Here,' the man in best shorts produced a jar of green
powder from somewhere on his cycle, `Make this up, for tomorrow,
it's mainly glucose and salts. Drink some every thirty minutes, and
always eat a little food on the hour.'

The despair which had been growing since Leeds suddenly became
hope.

`Are you all right?' drifted a voice from above.

I looked up. The mayor had sent a civic officer with cloth
covered buttons, probably his chauffeur, to check whether everything
was going according to revised plan. `Oh, yes, yes. Coming.'

Upstairs everyone was rolling with laughter, the mayor letting
them in on some past council secrets. `Come in, come in. Someone
give him a chair.'

Thank goodness for that, I won't have to give them a speech.
Three courses later the mayoral limousine drew up. `Now then,
you're staying at my friend's home tonight. No trailing round pubs
for a bed, we don't treat visitors that way in this town,' he
rattled his chains and the chauffeur opened the door. `And another
thing, none of the pubs round here have even seen one of your
sponsorship forms, so our local M.S. society are correcting that
matter right now.'

That was really good news. Obviously this was not one of those
places where the official Society's local secretary treated our
fund-raising for research as a threat to their empire.

`Come in, meet my husband, he lectures at the University,' the
mayor's friend greeted me. We all shook hands and her husband
eagerly started to chatter. `You can talk later. I've run Martin a
hot bath, it's waiting, tonight we're taking him to our club,' said
this dynamo of a woman who was also a councillor.

`Marvellous,' I sank into the waters, delaying the dinner.

`I won't cook the greens until you're ready,' she called up the
stairs. `They're fresh from our garden..... And don't pull out the
plug, our soil needs all the water it can get because of this
drought.' - I had been wondering what a green hose pipe was doing
dangling into outer space through their bathroom window.

Whilst we were dining she borrowed her husband's car and
collected the mayor. No rattle of chains this time, what with him
being in his off-duty clothes. `I think you'll squeeze into the
back,' she attempted to lever me into their DAF automatic. The
mayor, being more portly than me, was riding shotgun up front.
`Here,' she tucked my knees through the door, pushing it shut with
her bottom. `Next stop the club.'

What kind of club? I wondered, not wearing correct clothes.
`Here we are, the best club in town,' she spun round her steering
wheel, juddering us to a stop.

`Is this? Are we there?'

`Of course we are. It's our social club, the best club in
town,' she tooted her horn and the club doors swung open, its disco
blasting out the “Push Bike Song”. A round of applause as I entered,
being their guest of honour, someone thrusting a drink into my hand
whilst the hat was passed round, to return overflowing with cash as
another drink was pushed into my left hand.

But as soon as I emptied it someone else filled it. `This is
not the best way to prepare for tomorrow's ride,' I laughed, in the
vain attempt to say no. `That's enough, thanks,' but the beer kept
on flowing, the clock having struck twelve, and soon it would be
one. `No, no, really. Tomorrow I've got the A.6 to cope with, and
if there's another headwind like today's someone will have to drive
me to Harpenden and let me cycle back.'

`What for?'

`I'm determined to earn that sponsorship money, somehow. After
all, the forms don't say in which direction I've to ride in.'

`Haven't we told you, there's nothing to worry about, your next
door neighbour's been on the phone?'

`Ken! Has he? Good old Ken,' I held up my glass as the clock
struck one. `Tomorrow I'll be pedalling a pumpkin ..... but,
tonight, what the hell!'

Read the following chapters that tell of how Martin "cured" his M.S. and climbed mountains by the following year.

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