Storm Ciara? My arse - In the name of Thiago - Day 36
Those right there are
my legs. And right now they’re pretty fucked after walking 15 miles in part
aided by and in some parts driven back by Storm Ciara. Evil bitch that she is.
I felt as close as I
ever have to being heroic as we pounded the streets of Chesterton, Red Street,
Talke Pits and Kidsgrove, which was our destination before making our return following
the canal path back towards Middleport Pottery and taking the long slog up Porthill
Bank and back to Newcastle.
The ‘we’ was me and
Steve. This is the man who really stuck his neck out to say that, come what may
he was going to get me in shape when I tentatively came up with this crazy
walking plan back in December. Well he’s been as good as his word, which I always knew he would be. Top bloke Steve.
We set off at 9am and
the weather wasn’t too bad at that point, quite literally the calm before the
storm. On we plundered, I had to stop to vomit after about a couple of miles –
maybe not even that – at the side of the A34 as last night’s mini bosh up with Steve
and his wife Sarah took its toll.
The withering look he
gave me as I pathetically got up from my haunches and he said “You alright to
carry on” made me instantly respond, “Yes mate, sorry mate”. To be fair, I was
fine after that, no more yakking up today. On we went.
On through the scenic
delights of Parkhouse Industrial Estate, all the way to Kidsgrove without much
incident and with a supportive wind that certainly helped to clear any last
remnants of hangover from last night.
We had intended to
have a pint here but as we’d made good time we arrived half an hour ahead of
opening and so took the difficult decision to continue along the canal path
without sustenance. Within 20 minutes it was coming down in fucketfuls. As we
strode along the side of Bathpool Park, that name became fairly apt.
Rain started leaking
into my clothes, spreading its evil with cancer-like malignance. Through the coat,
soaking my T-shirt, right through my tracksuit bottoms. That was just the
start. By this point my hands were freezing and I was walking with them rigidly
exposed to the elements. Rain then started seeping into my Reg Grundies.
Jesus fuck it was
awful. My balls soon had a little pool of water to nestle in and body part
shrinkage seemed to be taking hold, which when you’ve got nothing much to start
with is quite a debilitating experience!
By this point every
footstep was accompanied by a revolting squelch and then praise be the wind
really picked up and we had to start playing the ‘try not to get drowned in
standing water from passing motorists game’. My legs were telling me to pack it
in, but if nothing else these last few weeks have given me extra determination
to see out a task. And besides Steve was still cracking on.
I rocked up here, at
my front door at 2pm, when ironically the sun was out so this picture doesn’t
really give you any idea of the suffering we endured. Okay that’s a little
melodramatic, it was just a walk after all. I did it and I am proud of myself.
Thank you me and thank you Steve!
You can donate to my
300 mile walk from Eastbourne to Stoke-on-Trent as I raise money for two local hospitals
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