Chapter 22 Dangerously Healthy by Malcolm Birkenshaw

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Chapter 22.

A six o'clock call next morning was intended to give my legs
time to un-knot, sort themselves out, ready for an eight o'clock
start. `Your neighbour's also phoned,' the message wafting upstairs
was accompanied by the smell that my breakfast being ready.

`That'll be Ken. They told me last night at the club that he'd
phoned,' I hurried downstairs to bacon and eggs.

`You shouldn't really have these.'

`I know, but I never eat fat and the rest will be burned off
before lunch time.'

`He phoned this morning, you know.'

`As well as last night? I pulled a chair up to the table,'

`He's put things right so you won't be left unescorted along
the A.6.'

`That means Prod's probably been on the sharp end of a rocket.'

`Prod, who's that? Would you like tea or coffee?'

`He's their personnel relations officer.'

`Do you take sugar? I don't know about Prod, is that his name?
but your neighbour's coming himself.'

`Ken? That's good news.... I didn't fancy being left to cope
with the trucks on my own.' The doorbell rang.

`That'll be him,' she glanced at their grandmother clock and
left to answer the door. I listened, stirring my tea, hearing more
than one voice. `Come in, have a cup of coffee,' she said, `Martin's
still eating his breakfast.'

`Now then, what's thee bin up to?' six foot nine dipped its
head through the doorway.

`Lofty!' I exclaimed, `Where's Ken?'

`Ee's outside, tying yon rack o' yours wi' its sign on't roof
of 'is car,' he chuckled, whilst also emitting a slight groan as he
unfolded himself arthritically into a seat. `Thought I'd keep `im
company.... This the coffee?' he reached forward without leaning.
`I've left Ma and t'lad minding t'Jolly Poacher whilst I 'ave me
summer `oliday.'

The clock chimed a quarter to. `I'll have to make a start,' I
drank down the last of my tea whilst getting up. `You and Ken take
your time, have your coffees, but I better set off before the wind
has chance to start up and the roads are still quiet, Radio
Leicester are expecting me before nine o'clock.'

`Will thee be all right?'

`Of course I shall. Besides, I won't have got far before you
overtake me.'

The road seemed so level, perhaps the affect of last night when
my spirits had been lifted, for now my legs were gobbling the miles.
Thirty minutes later Ken caught up, did not overtake, but switched
on his hazard lights and sat on my tail to keep the traffic at bay.
It started to rain. Time for my first drink. It started to pour,
time for some food, Ken turning left whilst I rode down a one-way
street for buses and cyclists only. `See you on the main road, to
Bedford, after the interview,' I shouted, but could not be heard
over the diesel exhausts and noise of tyres squelching trails
through the rain.

It became a deluge, but even when pedalling up and down over
what I supposed were the toes of the Leicestershire Wolds that
racing cyclist's diet really was working. `I've never ridden this
fast before,' I laughed at the trees, as heavy with foliage they
were bent by their drenching. `It's madness,' I remained upright,
racing down every hill, wheels slicing through water, accelerating
furiously in time for the next climb.

Through waterlogged eyes I glanced at my watch and signalled to
Ken. Another hour gone, time to eat, in fact time for lunch, a
transport cafe in sight on the top of the next hill. `Do you know
you were doing over forty miles an hour down those hills,' he said
after parking his car, unsure as to whether I was brave, foolhardy
or balmy.

`I'd no option, my brakes wouldn't work,' I climbed from under
my cape, hair dripping in rivulets down my forehead, chaining the
bike to some railings whilst Lofty limped ahead into the cafe and up
to its counter. The serving lady, five feet tall, looked across the
rows of plastic red tables at our car outside, saw its “Disabled
Cyclist” sign, then looked back at Lofty. `Take this, love,' she
reached up and slipped five pounds into his pocket. `You with him?'
she turned to me.

I nodded.

`Take good care of him,' she ladled me an extra helping of
mash. `Ethel,' she shouted at a girl on the far side collecting
dishes, `Give their table a wipe down, I can see puddles of gravy
from here.'

After lunch the sun appeared, first time for three days, and my
pace slowed. `Stop for a break,' Ken flashed with his lights before
pulling onto a curve where the old road was relegated to being a
lay-by. `Here,' he indicated, unfolding a garden chair from his car,
planting it firmly on the verge, overlooking the plain leading to
the next hill upon which spread Luton.

`Now that really is going to be a test,' I mused, remembering
this area from the days when Peter lived near Clophill, psyching
myself up for that long climb ahead. `Let's go,' I said.

Being mainly downhill or level my pacing was easy until we
passed through Barton in the Clay. Ahead the A.6 narrowed into a
cutting which climbed remorselessly until reaching Luton. `This is
where I'd have had to get off and walk, clinging to the chalk walls,
with my bike's wheels nipped into the gutter, trucks crawling past,
had Prod been my back-up.'

But today I had Ken's car guarding my tail, refusing to be
pushed by the ever-lengthening snake of vehicles which were
gathering behind him, all being denied space in which to squeeze
past. Mind you, I feared that their drivers would be swallowing
their frustrations so I pedalled as close as I dare to physical
exhaustion - the number of times in the past I had played hell with
a cyclist holding me up! ..... One last steep slope, so close to
London, having just covered 90 miles in less than five hours. `Don't
know what you're looking so pleased about,' I felt my rook dancing
up and down on its twig, `With average speeds like that you wouldn't
even qualify for a Skimmed Milk race.'

`You're early,' the security man said, in Harpenden, checking
the clipboards hanging round the inside of his glass kiosk from
which he worked the barriers up and down guarding the gates to Tiger
Ale's main brewery `The reporters aren't here, and there will be a
lot of disabled people coming to the reception to greet you,' he put
on his cap, looked at his watch, before coming outside to negotiate.
`Can you cycle round town for a while?'

`I've just done a hundred miles!'

`Right then, who's the one who's disabled?' he adjusted his
cap, again looked at his clipboard, curling his moustache, not
authorised to make unscheduled decisions, seeing me unbent on my
bike as not making sense of his orders.

`It's all right, it's all right,' their Sports and Social
Secretary hurried over, `Alf's only obeying orders,' he clicked his
heels. Alf's moustache twitched, his barrier raising lever hand
responding with pedestrian pace after taking his time to check the
polished gleam on his buttons. `Come on, have a pint or shandy or
something,' the Secretary took charge of my bike, he had seen our
arrival from the top of a ladder from which he was festooning their
canteen with streamers and three “New M.S. Research Society” banners,
`The reception can't begin until knocking off time.'

`All right, just a shandy, thanks, with it being so early,' I
unlocked my knees, mindful of the beer that I had drunk last night
once the party got going.

`Right, coming up. How's Lofty Cartwright doing? Is he still
landlord of the pub in your village?'

`He's here, somewhere,' my eyes opened, surprised. `How do you
know him? He rode shotgun in the car that......'

`Lofty Carters,' he suddenly saw him. `How you doing? Over
here, what are you drinking?'

`By `ell, it's Danny. What's tha' doing down here? It's a long
time since thee delivered beer to me pub.'

`Been promoted, Lofty. Here's to Tiger Beer, the bitter with a
bite,' Danny slapped his back, and the evening began, premature
like, with the management and staff presenting cheques, collecting
cash, having left off long after where Prod had been too mean to
make even a start. `And we'll have this changed before I give you a
lift to the hotel,' Danny, their Secretary, raided the company
stores and painted out “INVALID CYCLIST”, inserting
“MULTIPLE SCLEROSIS RESEARCH”.

`I'm sorry,' I rehearsed an inadequate apology, it being three
o'clock in the morning, hoping to find the hotel doors unlocked and
unguarded whilst the taxi's diesel engine noisily ticked over,
un-stilling the still of the night. But the hotelier himself was
waiting up, ensuring I got his best suite. `Don't worry,' he waved
aside my concern, `Would you like a night-cap?'

`Night-cap? No thanks, I've got to be up in four hours' time.'

`That's all right, I start serving breakfasts at six,' he
intercepted my fumbling for money. `And there'll be no charge.
Accept it as my contribution for M.S. research.'

Next morning I was still thinking of how wonderful strangers
can be when Danny, this time in his own car, and in his own time,
having volunteered to lead me all the way into London, winkling out
shortcuts to dodge most of Saturday's traffic.

“FLASH”.

Bloody hell, an assassin exploded out of the hedge. Didn't he
know, I wasn't carrying the cash? Or perhaps he was linked to a
rival charity from which we were creaming off funds?

“FLASH” again, but this time no bang. Come to think of it, there
was no bang before. `Oh, it's him, panic over,' I started breathing
again, recognising the cycling reporter from Loughborough, this time
in his non-business shorts, tight to those oaken thighs.

“FLASH”. `Just one more in front of the War Memorial,' he called
out, loading another film on the hoof, or rather whilst on the
pedal.

Why did I agree? From then on whilst not avoiding traffic I
found myself dodging this jack-in-the-box photographer who
persistently found ways to surprise, leaping from behind buildings,
pillar boxes, trees, leaving me expecting him to erupt any moment,
casting aside a manhole cover to get the last-picture-ever of me
being squashed by London-bound bus.

But my pace became slower and his appearances evaporated with
the heat. `I think my tyres need pumping up,' I signalled.

`I got everything out of Ken's car. What you want's not here,'
Danny said, his head emerging red faced after searching deep between
the seats of his car, the “MULTIPLE SCLEROSIS RESEARCH” sign now
clamped to his roof.

`Damn, PROD's taken my pump and repair kit back to Leeds with
those two bloody bikes..... And just when I needed it most,' the
roads now melting. `It's like pedalling through molasses,' I
shouted, sweating, wondering whether my slow pace was entirely due
to soft tyres? Or were too many late nights to blame? Or, for the
first time in my life, was the sun having an affect after drinking
beer so close to excess?

But suddenly we were filtering amongst traffic which was
teeming off the M.1, braking and fuming, their engines still hot
with intent, reluctant to be held up by the Great North Way, all the
time Danny's car protecting and directing me from behind, two toots
on his horn for left and one for a turn to the right.

A peppering of toots later we were relatively free from the
mayhem, aiming along roads for the City, wide but emptied on
weekends and, despite fears that my tyres would run out of legs, we
arrived at Tiger Ale's head office and its original brewery.

`You're early. Better go for a ride and come back when the
management's arrived,' a man rearranging decorative barrels pointed
me back up the road.

`Not again.'

`What do you mean, not again?'

`Sorry. It's just that I arrived early in Harpenden.'

`That's not my fault, mate. Just tell me, what am I supposed
to do with you when I've got all this lot to sort out before the
bosses arrive?'

`Can't I ride round in the old brewery yard? I'd rather not
tempt fate on flat tyres and return to the main roads.'

`They're not bloody flat.'

`Soft, then.'

`Suit yourself. It's all cobbles, you know.'

`I beg your pardon.'

`Cobbles stones, you know, like they used to make streets out of.'

He was right. Wall to wall cobbles, polished by cart wheels in
the days when Tiger ales were brewed here, but nowadays scrubbed
clean for effect until the colour of mature stone red had begun to
show through. `Can I just stay here out of sight?' I braked, having
been bounced off my saddle.

`Cecil, is it all right if this bloke's what's cycled from
Yorkshire stands by the fire hydrant?'

`Oh, it's 'im, is 'e 'ere? Tell `im they're ready and 'ee's to
cycle to the front where the photiographers is waiting.'

They were, and so too was the cast of a West End show and
members of the New Multiple Sclerosis Research Society, all there to
welcome me. Goody, good, good, beautiful girls and actors asking me
to sign copies of a commemorative book, published by the directors
to celebrate the ride they had sponsored. Goody good good.

`You'll stay for the show, tonight,' invited the girls as they
swung their dresses to please the photographers, pleasing me too.

`Sorry,' I smiled.

`You won't have to pay, just come to the stage door.'

`You can stay for the weekend,' they continued to try to
persuade me whilst we were shepherded downstairs to the company's
vaults, nowadays decorated for lavish events, today with tables
spread under white linen and set in three rows against the high
table for a banquet.

`You'll sit here, Mr Mytholmroyd,' the head waitress showed me
to my place amongst the actors and dancers close to the top table.

`My lords, ladies and gentlemen,' started the chief barker,
appearing out of the shadows from behind the high table after
banging his gavel.

`I think I know him,' I muttered through the side of my mouth.

`He's their chief security officer in Harpenden.'

`Ah, that's where. Hardly recognise him dressed up in that
outfit. Looks like a blue budgie.'

`They're swallowtails.'

`What are?'

`That's what they call the sky blue swallow-tailed coat which
he's wearing,' referring to the top part of his chief barker's
uniform in company colours, tailored tightly to a Mr Micawber-like
paunch.

`More a marine blue, like the water they use for their beers,'
whispered someone to my left.

When the speeches ended special presentations began, including
more donations for M.S. research and a commemorative book for each
guest, this time from the directors.

`We'll put you up,' the cast kept topping my glass with wine
for each course of the luncheon.

Pity, such beautiful girls... And why now, twenty years too
late? `Don't forget, Claire's French friend is arriving today, her
first trip to Britain,' my damned conscience kept scratching my
neck. `And don't forget your health, you need a rest,' it continued
to whisper, sitting heavy upon my right shoulder.

`We'll have to be going, we're on stage soon, it's matinee
time,' a hand was gently placed on my elbow. `Are you sure you can't
come,... though tonight would be better?'

Get off my left shoulder, damn, damn, damn, my head reluctantly
shook no, pushing that damned rook to one side whilst my smile
vainly wished yes. But, like the last night of a show, the party
was suddenly over, leaving the directors' vaults bleak and hollow
with a skeleton of staff clearing up. `Come on, we'll give you a
lift,' Fiona had organised help from a member of our research
organisation.

`Which station?'

`Kings Cross.' I had been left victim to PROD's budget,
abandoned to cycle back to Leeds or buy my own ticket.

`How long will it take to get the wheels off your bike so I can
fit it into my car?'

`Don't bother, I've managed to arrange with their Social
Secretary for it to be returned to Leeds on the back of a brewery
truck.'

`That's very good of them.'

`I suppose so,' my heart heavy. A wealth of good will and
generosity had come from the brewery. Pity, if only Prod had
distributed the sponsorship forms my ride would have raised an
additional fifty thousand pounds for research.

`Will you be all right?'

`Yes, thanks. Just drop me near to the ticket office.'

`Keep in touch.'

`See you.'

`Cheerio.'

With a tug the carriage slid imperceptibly along the platform,
or was it another train moving? No, it was us, and soon I was
watching the blackened stone wall accelerating past as we left
King's Cross and entered the first tunnel.

`I'll never do this ride again.' Damn him, damn Prod, a case of
King's Rook to pawn..... and I feel a right prawn, netted in
Adderton only to be left high and dry two hundred miles away.

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

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