Back in the groove: 26 miles this Sunday, up every col, down into every valley, and up and over every pass in the area, including the finale of Capernwray Hill. Average speed, 13.8mph. That’s not going to impress everyone, but these hills are my Alpe D’Huez.

The final goal is now in sight: Wrynose (or bust) within the next three weeks. The money for my chosen charities is trickling in, and when the deed is finally done we may generate a bit more interest and a bit more cash.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again – many thanks to everyone who has kindly made a donation. I suppose I may have spread myself a bit thin by naming four charities at the same time, but in my defence this is the first time I have attempted anything like this. Next time I’ll get someone to project-manage the campaign, as they say on Grand Designs.

That said, I’m amazed at how much we’ve raised so far, and how many people we’ve reached. I’ve been out of touch with some of my donors for years. It has all been quite heart warming.

Onwards and upwards. As the big day looms larger, life is becoming all work and training and no play. Tough, but it’s not for ever. Thank you for your support.

Wrynose plans stymied by the elements, I took Sunday off to watch Jez run the line at Liverpool versus Newcastle.

By and large, football people are a great bunch, and true to form we had a good day out. A sandwich or two at half time, photos taken alongside the Champions League trophy, and shoulders duly rubbed with a few former players and a smashing guy who turned out to be the Everton scout. 

The game today wasn’t too clever, though. I don’t usually care who wins – we just go to be entertained and to support the third (and best) team on the pitch, the officials – but Newcastle were a total let down. Their most professional performance came from Alan Shearer, messiah-in-waiting (but don’t hold your breath).

There he was in his white shirt, like the white horse at Wembley, waving every time the ‘Shearer’ chant went up and scowling every time Liverpool attacked and exposed his team’s frailties. And all the time playing an outstanding game of Failing Manager Footsie with the fourth official.

All losing football managers do this: They deliberately stand just outside their technical area and wind up the fourth official. Usually the official will give the transgressor a few minutes to get it out of his system, before finally doing as required and telling him to keep inside his area. This typically leads to a ‘discussion’ wherein the manager questions the official’s parentage and with a lot of arm waving demonstrates to the arena that he is the most committed man on his team.

When the game is rubbish this sort of diversion is almost as good as when the rival mascots have a fight. And if you’re very lucky you’ll see your multimillionaire Armani-besuited manager go on to do his impression of Kevin the sulky teenager. Absolutely priceless.

It’s goodbye to blistering, sun-soaked April and hello to … February? 

This first week in May was going to be the week of the bike ride, but bad weather has got in the way. The forecast is for howling gales, driving rain and single-digit temperatures.

I may be daft taking on this venture, but I’m not stupid: We’ve postponed to the last week of the month. It’s a bank holiday week in the Lakes (oh, great), but hopefully spring will be back with us by then. And it gives you a bit more time to cough up some cash for my chosen charities…

The photo shows two fathers-in-law and their respective sons-in-law, on top of Causey Pike. That’s me on the left, Paul Moore on the right, and the two Jamies in between. Behind is Skiddaw, and on the right is the wonderful Blencathra, with Keswick and Derwent Water centre right. 

To avoid confusion we call the Jamie standing next to me ‘Cush’, for reasons no one can remember; the other one, Paul’s son-in-law, is known as ‘Tigger’. That’s my fault, I’m afraid – on my daughter Sal’s birthday expedition to Skiddaw last December I likened his bouncing around on the fells to hiking with Tigger, and the nickname seems to have stuck.

Causey Pike was our first peak of the day. We went on to conquer Sail, Crag Hill (formerly Eel Crag) and Grizedale Pike to complete the horseshoe, before dropping down to Braithwaite and a waiting pint in the garden of the Coledale Hotel. About 15 miles in all. And what a day to do it! You expect to come down from the Lake District hills with a few aching muscles, but to collect a sunburned nose in April is an unusual treat.

Maybe the sunshine went to our heads a little. The photo was taken by one of a group of women we met at the top, in a friendly reciprocal arrangement. We earned a right telling-off from them later, when, caught up in the moment, we descended the scree on Eel Crag Tigger style. Made them nervous and threatened their survival on the hills, apparently. Oops.

The next day I joined John for our usual Sunday morning bicycle thrash round the hills of Arnside, Silverdale and Beetham. Twenty-five miles of ups and downs and, funnily enough, I didn’t feel too bad.

21 miles at a reasonably good pace, today. Not too many serious hills, average speed 15.9 mph (just one tenth short of the magic speed of 16mph). 

We were trying to avoid the bank holiday traffic on what we call our standard route, but one car nearly did for us at the finish. Coming back home through Carnforth, positioned for a right turn onto Crag Bank road, an Astra overtook us on the wrong side of the road, against a stream of oncoming traffic and against all common sense. He got to the mini roundabout just ahead of us and, rather than turn right, he promptly did a U-turn and came back onto us. 

I wasn’t in too bad a position – I could see he was a plonker – but John was too trusting and nearly ended up under his front wheels. What a prat. And with wife and kids on board; what on earth could they have been thinking? He was as competent a driver as Mr Pastry was a dancer (showing my age here)…

Where are the police when you need them?

I was pounding the gym equipment last night and today am feeling a little sorry for myself. 

When you get on the machines your mind tends to wander, and I think of all kinds of things. I mentally solve problems at work, or think what I could write here to encourage you to give a bit more cash for my chosen charities…

Money wise, so far we are in the mid-£400s or so. I confess, the motivation behind Wrynose or Bust initially was more about my ego than any desire to raise funds for charity, but now I’ve started this campaign the story has changed and the fund raising has become much more of an issue with me. If you could find a couple of quid to help out some very worthy charities, I would greatly appreciate the support.

So go on, pick a charity. I’ve got four to choose from and paying through the JustGiving system makes everything so easy. It’s also worth noting that if you are a taxpayer, JustGiving can reclaim Gift Aid on your behalf and pass it on to the charity. They take a commission for admin costs, but as an example, a £10 donation is worth  £11.93 to the charity. I don’t think that is too bad at all.

A JustGiving donation also buys you the opportunity to abuse me. Money well spent, I’d say. Although some people have also been kind and encouraging:

‘Of course you can do it’, from Derek Hulse of Lancaster Rotary.

‘Going up in the post van was bad enough, so best of luck’, says Simon (presumably the local postie, bless him).

‘Allez! Allez!’ from Scott Dougall, an old work colleague who I haven’t seen in years.

‘Good luck – I hope you make it. The Lycra really suits you. (One of those statements is a bit of a fib)’, says Tony Wilkinson. ‘Damned cheek,’ says I.

I love the feedback – it’s strangely reassuring. Go on, chip in a quid and have your say – even if it’s only to tell me not to be daft.

Last week’s 2.5-hour ride actually covered 35 gruelling miles, so why I said we only did 26 beats me. I have difficulty reading the bike computer without glasses, I suppose; it must be my age. Actually, I’ve always been at a funny age – it’s just that now I’ve turned 60 I have an excuse.  

As for this week: We were only on the road for 1.5 hours today, but the course was more challenging than last week’s longer one – a couple of long uphill 7-percent drags; a short, sharp 10-percent climb; and two long 12-percent climbs. Along with just about every other hill in the area in between. If there was a hill, we went for it. 

The average speed was down to 12.8 mph, but I’m holding my weight and going for the burn. Or at least that’s my story.

I am more confident with hills these days. Until recently, when I saw a hill I stiffened the sinews, girded the loins and went for it with all my might, in the hope that I would have enough puff to get over the top. Most times I made it, but it’s not smart cycling. 

As the hills I now cycle are much bigger, I have had to think laterally and smarter: I now cycle up them well within myself and feel so much better as I go over the top. Indeed, I have so much confidence in my new hill climbing style that these days I never feel I won’t make it. Of course, it can be embarrassing when people walking their dogs overtake me, but at least in my case man and bike are as one – unlike some of the owner-dog partnerships…

In an earlier blog I described how John views unkindly being overtaken by ‘whipper snappers’, and cited a specific example of the humiliation he likes to deal out. Well, he’s done it again.

There I was, struggling up Arnside hill from the Albion pub, when another cyclist caught up with me. We exchanged the usual pleasantries – nice day, better than yesterday, good to see a little sun, etc – before he pulled ahead to reel in John and add another scalp to his handlebars. 

John, of course, had seen him coming. Just as Junior caught up to him he stood on his pedals and was off over the hill, leaving the younger guy wondering what had hit him. 

Reminds me of the film Seabiscuit, about the little horse who could. In the final race in the film (a true story, by the way) Seabiscuit takes on the champion horse who had won everything in racing in the USA. Just like the horse, John looked into the eyes of this would-be challenger, measured and tested him, and in that glance ultimately found him wanting. He put on a spurt and left the other cyclist, who in reality was half his age, floundering far behind. 

It’s all too easy for John. Ordinary mortals like me need oxygen, whatever our age.

15st 2lb, 26 miles of up and down and round about at an average speed of just 13.9mph. A brand new course that took in just about every hill in the area, and which was wickedly planned by John to ensure that at all points on the circuit, bar none, the wind was in my face. Totally knackered I was, at the end. 

I’ve just got to do better – the Wrynose route is almost four times as far and brutally hilly. I figure that if I can get to Ulpha, just north of Broughton in Furness in the Duddon valley, and still feel reasonably strong, I’ll be able to beat it. I say this because I drove the early stages to this section last Friday and was reminded that the ups and downs to Ulpha are definitely not for the faint hearted. Nor indeed for the sane – but this is not a rational challenge for your average 60-year-old (me).

Great new wheels, or at least new Swiss spokes and Mavic rims. 

This week I was on my own, as John is marshalling a club time trial. The wind was strong so I found a new route that kept me sheltered – that’s relatively speaking – while directing me as many hills as possible, per the plan. 

But could I get the bike computer to work? What is it with me and bike computers? You buy them, you look after them and you know what you get in return for the love and nurturing: Nothing. They don’t work. 

Oh, but hang on minute. Halfway round the circuit I realized I had forgotten to fix the spoke sensor in place. No signal sent to the computer, no readout. 

Next week, next week it will all come together…