Emuna has a contraption that she uses to get about on in spite of poorly knees. It's a bit like the old hobby horses, what people used before they invented proper bikes. This one has 3 wheels and a comfortable saddle that you sit on and scoot yourself along. The advantage of this is that it takes the weight off her knees but, unlike the disability scooters, (or electric chairs as my mum called hers) you actually get some exercise. The downside is that she has to get off and push up the hill from the town centre to our house.
I bought an electric motor, intended for helping mountain bikes up hills, to help with this problem. It can be connected or disconnected by the operation of a little lever on the handlebar. The frame needed some modifications for fitting this. I took it to our friends Dixon & Smith (motor engineers) in Dukinfield, who did various bits of cutting and welding to make a suitable bracket for it. I collected it and now have to fathom out fitting a battery and control system for it.
Pushing the contraption from Dixon & Smith's workshop to Portland basin, I came to the top of the cobbled slope that runs down off the bridge over the arm to the marina. I thought I might as well sit on it and ride down. The contraption took off like a rocket ( I'm sure gravity shouldn't be that strong). Rather than using the brake I thought I'd let it run and lean into the curve at the bottom of the slope. Big mistake!
The contraption isn't made to ride like a bike. I went one way, the contraption went another. I landed heavily on my right shoulder, giving myself a nasty and painful bruise.
One of the tasks that Emuna has set for me while she's away catsitting is to collect a laptop from Moston. This was lent to someone who offered to help with the treasurers job, but, changed circumstances meant that she had to drop out. This seems to happen a lot.
I could have gone in the van, but, is it really responsible to use 2 tons of fossil fuel burning metal just to collect a little laptop? Pre-covid I would have cycled, but, since having long covid I've been wary of doing all but the most local of rides. I decided to take my bike on the train, changing at Victoria.
First I had to visit Hazel and change over from solar to reserve batteries to keep the fridge going overnight for our guests. It had been raining. Everything was wet, but, careless of this, I hopped over the gunnel into the fore end, slipped, fell and sustained a bruised bum to go with my bruised shoulder.
The journey by train to Moston was straightforward. The trains were running like clockwork, all bang on time. Information on the platforms at Victoria is not great though. I just missed my Rochdale train and had a 30 minute wait. It was a very tight connection but I would probably have made it had I been able to instantly see which platform to go to.
I was hungry and hadn't drunk much all day, so, at Moston, I bought fish and chips and a carton of orange juice at exhorbitant prices. I must admit, the chips were very good though. I found the relevant house, picked up the laptop and headed back to the station. A train was scheduled in about 20 minutes. It said 'delayed' on the departures display, but I wasn't too bothered.
The loudspeakers kept apologising for the 19.16 to Rochdale being delayed. Soon a young man in working attire, wearing a baseball cap, joined me. We struck up a conversation. He told me he was a kitchen fitter. The job he was working on was a complete nightmare because the designers had given wrong measurements.
The loudspeakers warned the non existent people on the other platform to stand back as the approaching train didn't stop there. The only intending passenger had just given up and left. The train did stop and several passengers got off.
The clockwork mechanism seemed to need rewinding.
With a few minutes to go, our train was cancelled. Next one 20.36. I wasn't bothered. I was quite enjoying sitting on the platform bench chatting. I mentioned that my wife was a retired probation officer. He told me that he had been on probation and it was not fair. Strangely, I was not surprised. It turned out that he was just defending his brother who had been set upon by a gang of bigger men outside a club. They said he'd used more than 'reasonable force'. Well, he did put that guy in a coma, but I sympathised with him. The conversation turned to the subject of violence, which seemed to suit him. He told me that, by law, if an intruder comes upstairs to your bedroom you are allowed to use any amount of force to repel them. Perhaps I have some legally qualified friends who can confirm this as it's a new one on me. Of course, the infamous recent airport incident came up. The kitchen fitter thought the copper was justified in kicking in the head a man who was tasered and on the floor. He's not racist, he has an Indian aunt, but the bloke who broke the officers nose will get away with it because he's Asian. I disagreed, but it's amazing how many think like this. Fertile ground for rabble rousers. At least he didn't use the P word.
The time crept towards 20.36 and another passenger arrived. "You timed that well" I said, but he didn't seem to understand. A slightly built bearded man of Middle Eastern appearance, he spoke English, using all the correct words, but, not necessarily in the correct order.
The minutes ticked towards 20.36. I stood up in anticipation of boarding the train. At 20.35 the time expected shifted to 20.37. At 20.36 it shifted again to 20.38. For several minutes this pattern was repeated. They were still announcing that the 19.16 to Rochdale was delayed. Then appeared the dire words "Delayed" for our train rather than an estimated time of arrival. We were then given the helpful information that the train was at Victoria, which presumably meant that the unit had not yet made the journey out to Rochdale, where it would terminate before heading back towards Manchester and picking us up on the way.
After a few minutes dithering I started clipping the lights on to my bike, as it was now proper dark. I said goodbye to the kitchen fitter (the Middle Eastern man had already given up and gone) and wheeled my bike up the slope to the road.
Not so many years ago I used to cycle up to 150 miles in a day, so it's rather galling to be daunted by a ride of 6 or 7 miles. My strength seems to be gradually returning though. I picked my route to minimise hills, as I'm still finding these challenging. I enjoyed the ride,though I was getting a bit hot and I was anxious that I might run out of oomph part way.
The first bit was a busy dual carriageway, then, from Failsworth, a small suburban road, followed by a bit of countryside along the dark Coalpit Lane to join the main A627 at Bardsley.
It was along this road that my evening's adventures nearly came to a disastrous end.
Bardsley Brew is a steep hill leading down into the valley of the river Medlock. Nearly at the bottom there's a turning to Park Bridge called Waggon Road. The sight lines at the junction are not very good. I enjoyed whizzing down the hill, keeping up with the cars at about 30mph. Suddenly I realised that a car was pulling out of Waggon Road right in front of me. I swerved and shouted and, thank the gods, the driver braked and I missed his front bumper by a midges wotsit.
After this scare I just had a brief climb into Ashton and more suburban back streets before I could unlock the gate, park the bike and go indoors to brew up and flop in Emuna's reclining armchair.
Job done, just in time for Emuna's return.
