The story so far: I had completed the section from Land’s End to my home in Axbridge in three days with my son Ashley for company, now on day four I headed north aiming to reach Scotland in five days.
By Harry Mottram. Life is a series of unplanned events like when I was hit by a car while cycling in May. Or in my own family the tragedy of a young person’s death, the early deaths of my parents and younger brother or indeed when I had a heart attack near Carlisle. Nothing can prepare you for such things, but it is best to view such events as part of life and come to terms with them. And as a journalist write about them, as writing is somehow cathartic.
On Monday 12th August 2024, having dumped a lot of the clobber I had in my paniers in Cornwall I cycled off along the Strawberry Line cycle path from Axbridge to Yatton realising I had forgotten to turn off at Congresbury thus adding several miles to my route. I realised after the first three days of LEJOG (Land’s End to John O’Groats) that I only needed two track suits, two pairs of shorts and underwear as you can wash drip dry type clothes in a sink at a campsite and have them dry the following morning.
The ride through Bristol and up the A38 was smooth and fairly free of hills. I arranged to meet Frank Holmes – a long-term friend and the best man at my wedding – at the Fromebridge Mill pub near Stroud for a cold drink around lunchtime on day four – and after following Google Maps down a dead end to the wrong address I eventually found him further up the road. It was a very beautiful setting with a weir and mill pond and Frank as always was on good form in a Frank sort of way. He asked where we were planning to holiday, and I said Linda was keen to go to Lisbon. He said he’d been there with his brother Alex – and I asked – how did you get on – you know, on the pull? Frank sighed wistfully and said that all the girls they liked didn’t seem interested while the women of our age (we’re in our late 60s) were – how shall I put it – not of interest. At that point a very attractive blonde lady of a certain age who I asked to take our photo stepped forward to take a snap and return my phone. “There are exceptions,” he said with a smile, “I think she rather liked you.”
Frank and I had shared a house in Taunton as art students and a flat in Feltham in west London when we were trying to get jobs as graphic designers – and we’d worked at the same ad agency in Yeovil for a short time so knew each other well. There’s no secret Frank is very attractive to the opposite sex – and we used to joke that there were more girls in Taunton he had dated than he’d hadn’t gone out with. It was good to see him and to hear the latest news of his songwriting and of his band Rainmusic. To hear a clip of his music visit https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mq5V2DGXIRI
The next few miles took me through Gloucester past the scene of my near nemesis on May 4th when I was badly injured by a car that drove into the back of me at full speed, then on through the quirky town centre of Tewksbury and on again through Worcester to the campsite by a river. There I was to discover a new drink as I sat talking to a group of builders – triple gin and Tango. After 85 miles on the road it was a fabulous discovery – and coupled with Scampi Fries and salted peanuts revived me.
Up early on day five I headed along some terribly overgrown cycle paths and pavements hugging the A449 before cutting through a series of back roads towards Bewdley where I had a large sandwich at Piccoles café and several coffees. A mile or so later I had excruciating chest pains and a shortage of breath. I stopped, thinking this was indigestion and the effects of cycling – and after about 20 minutes it went. But I certainly seemed underpowered that day and after climbing a long hill out of Ironbridge something inside me said stop and rest. I booked into a Travel Lodge in Telford, showered, ate a sandwich and slept. I had covered only 40 miles.
The following day I visited Halfords and picked up a rain jacket and some cycle tops – paid for by a gift card my sister Alex Brenton sent me following my accident. What followed was a long day of cycling through Market Drayton, Nantwich, Northwich to the edge of Warrington to possibly the poshest camp site in England at Belmont House. Complete with the usual facilities, the site are the former grounds of the house now an all-girls’ school complete with lake and mature trees – and I was the only camper since the nation’s obsession with hook up camper vans has taken hold. I had refused to stop at a couple of so-called campsites which wanted £25 a night, with no showers or toilets – just a field.
Day seven was wet with rain all day with flooding in Preston and at times a foot of water to cycle through. My plan had been to reach Kendal but with some miles to go and soaked and exhausted I again had the chest pains and shortage of breath and opted for the second time to stay the night in a Travel Lodge. Looking back the signs were there but with another 80 odd miles of peddling I again assumed it was muscle ache.
England’s countryside – even in the congested and developed areas around Wigan is beautiful – with so much of it spread out like a green and gold jigsaw of farms, woodlands, vast fields and tiny hamlets. In contrast most of the towns I cycled through were similar in having three or so miles of suburbs on either side of used car lots, supermarkets, industrial estates, a hotch potch of housing and the inevitable roundabouts. The centres were universally interesting and often incredibly old with Tudor framed shops or grand Victorian buildings like in Warrington’s marketplace where fresh fish was being sold to a gaggle of shoppers.
From Kendal on day eight it was a long climb up Shap Fell on possibly England’s most deserted A-road with fabulous views across Lancashire and Cumbria – and a drop in temperature as I cycled up to the summit and down into Shap village. Another bout of breathlessness and chest pains which I put down to bolting a hot coffee and a sandwich followed. I had hoped to make Scotland but feeling increasingly unwell I cycled to a campsite just short of Carlisle, pitched up and went to bed knackered.
Looking back, my symptoms were obvious but like many people I was in denial. At 2am on Saturday I woke up in pain – my elbows and shoulders were torture – and my chest was increasingly painful to the point where in desperation I Googled my symptoms going through a check list on the NHS website. I got to the end, and it read: dial 999. It took a lot of persuading the telephone operator to call an ambulance with a long list of questions and personal details to give while after each question I gasped the words, ‘call an ambulance now, I’m dying.’ I was assured the ambulance would be a minimum of 45 minutes so I crawled on my hands and knees up the half mile long farm track to the road arriving there as the ambulance appeared.
My family have asked me why I didn’t wake up one of the other campers, but it was the middle of the night and I didn’t want to make a fuss – and they were all on holiday. Yes, I’m a bit too British at times. Kerry and Rebecca – the paramedics in the ambulance checked me over and confirmed it was a heart attack and drove me to Carlisle Hospital. It meant a sudden end to my LEJOG – now renamed (credit to Suzanne Saville) LETCH or Land’s End To Carlisle Hospital. I was operated on within a few minutes of being admitted by Mr Shelton (I’m pretty sure of his name) who inserted a minute catheter into my groin which fed up to my main artery in the heart which was blocked, he removed the blood clot and then inserted two stents first using a tiny balloon to press the remaining cholesterol to one side of my artery. I was awake all through the operation and perhaps due to the morphine I was given didn’t feel anything – and within minutes of the end of the operation at around 6am on a Saturday morning the chest pains went.
It was a miracle – and a tribute to skills of the surgeon, the support team of cardiac nurses and doctors that I survived – as one of them said to me later I was minutes from death. If anyone slags off the NHS I will willingly fight them. They saved my sister’s life three year’s ago when surgeons spent eight hours removing a large tumour from her brain and without Mr Shelton and Carlisle’s cardiac team I would be pushing up daisies now.
I was in hospital for six days and I have nothing but praise for the staff – they gave me care, empathy, help and advice and also allowed me to be Harry – as clearly, I was the youngest, healthiest looking patient in the ward. My fellow patients were good company, and I quickly picked up the local accent as at first I had to ask everyone to repeat things slowly. Some amazing stories from them and the staff – some of who were angels in my eyes as they were so positive and on occasion got me through some dark moments. As one guy I met who had also had a heart attack said: “Harry, we’ve been given a second chance of life. Grab it.” I did think back to May 4th when I was nearly killed by an errant motorist on her mobile phone – and thought yes, I had cheated the Grim Reaper twice this summer. From now on I’ll be more sensible – in a Harry sort of way.
My biggest regret was the stress it caused my family especially to Linda who was more stressed about my cycle ride before I left than I was. She came up to Carlisle in her tiny Fiat to see me and stayed in a local hotel – Ashley my son who had accompanied me on the Cornish and Devon legs of the cycle ride came up in his camper van with his family and took my bicycle back home. My youngest son Lawrence arrived by train from London – so good to see him – and he was a huge comfort to Linda as they have similar personalities and problems with stress. My oldest sister Kath who lives near Newton Stewart in Galloway was set to shadow my ride in Scotland in her camper van. Instead, she came straight to the hospital – did my laundry, bought me some clothes and home comforts – and took down my tent and rescued my bicycle. Finally, our eldest son Giles drove up from Wales in his van and on Friday 23rd August collected me and drove me home.
I was so angry when I left hospital with life and the injustice of it all. I simply couldn’t take people telling me that I must never cycle again, mustn’t take the statins and beta blockers prescribed as they kill you (I will take the medics’ advice over know-all key board warriors) or as one idiot told me that at my age I shouldn’t cycle. The cardiac support nurse emphasised that her biggest problem was getting people in their 60s, 70s and above to take exercise as it is the best way to ward off the negative effects of aging such as muscle loss.
Back home I’ve changed my diet and will be super sensible for the next few months as the doctors pointed out I had a serious heart attack, and it damaged my heart. There is a chance of a second attack or a stroke in the first four weeks after the operation – so no fry-ups, gin, wine, beer, limonchello, vodka, full fat milk, butter, lashings of mayonaisse, cigarettes, pipe tobacco, fatty foods, chocolate, sweets, chocolate biscuits or sugar in my coffee for now. (That list probably is the reason I was unwell.) I have a cocktail of pills to take for the rest of my life – each one dedicated to a different task – but I’m cool with that – and I suppose if nothing else I’m helping the pharmaceutical industry. One medic said that to avoid heart problems you need to choose different parents before you are born as my dad died of heart failure in the 1970s at the age of 71. A piece of advice I have spectacularly failed to take.
It has been a rollercoaster of a summer – but some things were achieved like losing weight, spending time with Ashley cycling the first three days and although an after thought to LEJOG I raised hundreds of pounds for four local charities through a Just Giving Page – so thank you to everyone who chipped in.
Now it’s a question of getting back to normal – building up my strength to be able to jog round Cheddar Reservoir in the mornings – to continue working editing and writing for my clients, to write a new play and a first novel – and not die. I’ve caused so much trouble this year to my family with two near death experiences – we’ve lost a holiday in Portugal that Linda was looking forward to and I’ve cancelled a once in a life time trip to visit my youngest sister Sally in New Zealand this winter. Plus, the expense and inconvenience I’ve put everyone through – but I guess life throws up these events. Nothing can prepare you for such things as I mentioned in my intro and for me as a journalist bad things make better copy.
Rapscallion Magazine is an online publication edited by Harry Mottram
Harry is a freelance journalist. Follow him on Facebook, LinkedIn, Twitter, Instagram, YouTube etc
Email:harryfmottram@gmail.com
Website:www.harrymottram.co.uk
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