When Al announced the ‘coolest adventure idea wins a bike’ competition, I thought, ‘great I have lots of cool ideas.’

It’s generally the implementation that lets me down, so I sat on my entry until I was on a train back from the pub. And that’s what led me to picking up the Chas Roberts tourer from Keith at Charing Cross station.

I was to ride it to Lydia for her Mexican adventure, having committed to deliver it anywhere in the UK mainland for someone to continue the bike’s adventure, whilst having my own adventure on the way.

It was great to meet Keith, and to make it an exchange of sorts I gave him a copy of my book (shamelessly plugged here: https://www.pitchpublishing.co.uk/shop/turncoat ) which is about going to different non-league football clubs to see who I should support, and is about as adventurous as I’ve been lately. In terms of one sided trades it was up there with Russia selling Alaska to America.

I set off with Alaska, but not until my photographer friend Soren, who came along for the day, could get some photos. Posing outside the station did make me feel like I was about to embark on an epic adventure, rather than just riding to Somerset, where I found out Lydia is based. My reaction was ‘great, that’s a lovely part of the world, although into the prevailing wind.’

Soren and I set off looking for coffee. The bike was super smooth to ride, with wide tyres and a Brooks saddle making it very comfortable. I left a Twitter poll running to decide where I should go to complete a side quest of watching a game of non-league football. Caffeinated, sidetracked by a bit of the Lord Mayors show, and fully stocked with the correct inner tubes, I checked the results and I was being sent to Potters Bar to watch St Panteleimon vs Mildenhall.

First we had to navigate our way out of London, which was more adventurous than my old commute along CS1. Soren led the way. There were back streets new to me, busy main roads, a Greek bakery for lunch then after Hadley common we were out of Greater London, under the M25 and at the football ground.

The match was an FA Vase tie, a national competition for non league clubs in the ninth and tenth tiers of English football. Both sides had chances early on before Mildenhall took the lead and held on comfortably. The man of the match was the seafood van for their Thai soft shell crab. The game will also give me material for a chapter in the book I’m working on about groundhopping, the equivalent of trainspotting for football fans. Soren had to leave for a party, so for the rest of the trip I would be going solo. I did ask if my friend Phil would join me, as his moaning would have made me feel better about my own suffering, but he made some vague excuses. Another friend, Ben, was too busy overseeing an IT roll out, so no matter how bad my week got it would beat that.

From Potters Bar I had a return train ticket to my parents in St Neots and a free bed for the night, which wasn’t adventurous, but was convenient. To add a bit of spice to proceedings I put up another Twitter poll to decide whether I would ride the next day without any maps, or without coffee and cake.

Day two started with me jettisoning some kit. I wouldn’t need my passport, having made vague plans to detour into France if I were delivering it somewhere in the south east. More controversially, I ditched my camping gear, which might seem like the precursor to my Captain Scott-like demise, only I would be much nearer to several budget hotels. Since the no coffee or cake poll option was winning, I booked one such establishment in Towcester confident I could now map a route around Northampton, which I would have stayed in otherwise.

I set off under grey skies and was soon able to play the game of which piece of kit shouldn’t I have left behind, with a spare pair of dry shoes the winner. I passed several lovely villages, with Harrold the standout for its bandstand to hide under for a while, eating peanuts while longing for a cafe stop.

My next stop was Salcey Forest, where I had lunch at the cafe and my conscience decided that on balance a tray bake counted as a cake, so that was off the menu. I took the bike for a walk on the wellness path, which was a timely reminder to slow down and take in the autumn colours and notice there was indeed some sunlight piercing through the canopy. The bike had a selfie with the Gruffalo.

On went the ride out of the deep dark wood, over the Grand Union canal and into a road closure. There was no way around, but there was a farmers field with wide tractor tracks leading to another road. Feeling strongly about the need to improve right to roam laws and even more strongly about not adding a detour of several miles, I trudged across the field. Then I heard police sirens. Clearly, they weren’t for me, as I was being about as transgressive as Theresa May running through a field of wheat, so they hurtled past. It did up the adventure stakes though.

Next up would be a sketchy bypass crossing. I rode into Towcester on the old Watling Street, down past the grand entrance gates to the racecourse. I had made the market town tonight’s destination largely because I recognised the name from too many afternoons spent watching Grandstand. In the end the cycle path made reaching the hotel as smooth as Des Lynam’s presenting.

I could relax back in town at the Towcester Mill brewery, which I had been alerted to by Si Everett (@stymieSi) as he completes a very different adventure in visiting all the pubs in the Great British Beer Guide. I left a Twitter poll running to decide where my trip would take me next

On day three I woke up to howling wind and a downpour. Mercifully, the good people of Twitter had chosen the shorter route to a youth hostel near Stratford-upon-Avon. I’m always keen to support the YHA and I’d seen this one whilst wondering what if Lydia lives in Birmingham. Sure, the YHA in Streatley would be in the right direction, but Twitter had spoken and I could make up the miles later.

First, I needed coffee and went to the finest establishment available in next door’s service station. I then made full use of a late check out time, struggling to motivate myself to get out. The competition said adventure should be whatever it means to you, and for me the challenge lately has been overcoming anxiety and letting the slightest thing talk me out of a ride or to cut one short, so rides have gotten less and less adventurous. The beauty of this trip was that it would force me to get out, and when I did it was fine. I settled into the ride, with a few sprints needed to make sure I got out from under the perilously swaying branches of the wind buffeted oak trees. A conveniently placed bus stop kept me out of a passing shower before I crossed a vast HS2 construction site, the Fosse Way and various other arteries, before a late lunch near the end of the day’s ride.

It had been an easy day, but after a walk into town for a single beer and a quick look at Shakespeare’s house I was ready for bed, surprised at the effect a steady pace over a relatively short distance had on me.

It was once more unto the breach on day four. A hearty breakfast set me up for dealing with rush hour traffic before the Stratford Greenway took me out of town and proved the bike’s off road capabilities.

I reached the Cotswolds, with villages of golden hued stone and a climb made easy by the bikes gears, up to views of rolling hills of ploughed fields, vibrant autumn leaves and Broadway Tower. I don’t regret lingering here for coffee and cake, but I do wonder if I could have out-run the leaden skies that enveloped me soon after, if I hadn’t. The heavens opened, so I dashed into Bourton-on-the-Water and was thankful to the landlady of the Kingsbridge pub who let me warm up in front of the fire.

I was never going to fully dry out, so I made a break for it when the rain eased, to make my hotel before nightfall. Shivering, this was one time I was glad of a hill to warm up on. Before long the sun was out and all was right with the world, apart from my feet, which would remain no better than damp.

I was looking forward to the pub I had booked for my one extravagant overnight stop, but on the approach roads were flooded. I tentatively went through a few patches hoping there were no lurking potholes, before reaching what can only be described as a river where there should have been a road. Turning back wasn’t an option as the only other road looked more susceptible to flooding and I had no idea where a footpath sign would take me. I waited and saw a van pass the other way. The driver made a joking swimming motion. There was only one thing for it, I would have to walk through the shin deep frigid ditchwater. Seeing the pub come into view was like seeing an oasis in a desert, a very wet desert. Just to round off the day, a printed notice on the door said no food would be served due to staff shortages.

I was three miles from the nearest restaurant and it was nearly dark, so I replenished lost calories through beer and crisps. The well-appointed room and a decent breakfast made up for the regular chef going off to pursue a career in fine dining.

The next morning I was on my way for my fifth and final day of riding. Google maps has improved its cycle mapping lately and it routed me along the Wiltshire Way. I was worried about flooded roads, but it was mostly restricted to the fields. A sign for a ford unnerved me, but it was just a trickle, so my dry feet would remain so.

The towns of Malmesbury and Corsham were delightful apart from the parked cars ruining the timeless look. No cafes leapt out until I saw a farm shop just before Bradford-on-Avon. My progress had been better than expected and they were still serving breakfast. I was glad I stopped since Bradford was clogged with nose to tail traffic that made me want to hurry through. I ignored Google’s suggestion of going along the canal and river, still wary of flooding, so I stuck to a minor A road.

Google wasn’t keen on this idea, but traffic was light and there were a few more villages I stopped to take in their charms, whilst also taking on board snacks and oiling the chain, as the bike looked like it had been on a serious expedition by now.

I was creaking a bit myself with the rolling terrain. I came into one village with a sign proclaiming it ‘the home of Jack and Jill’. My thoughts went from ‘that’s nice’ to ‘hang on a minute isn’t that a nursery rhyme about a hill’. Sure enough I was soon climbing again.

The final descent into Wells was a long time coming, but it was most welcome when it did. Views stretched out over the silvery Somerset levels, a faint outline of Glastonbury Tor in the distance. Before long Wells impressive cathedral came into view, along with some equally nice looking pubs.

There were still a few miles to the bike’s delivery address. Lydia wasn’t in, so I was greeted by her dad Steve and excitable dog Sunny. Steve’s enthusiasm really brought it home to me how cool it was to be part of this bigger adventure. He was adamant that Lydia’s last ride had been with stabilisers, so I’ll look forward to seeing how she gets on. The bike will certainly be more than capable, once it’s cleaned (sorry, Lydia).

After Steve kindly dropped me back in Wells I had a cider to celebrate (I was in Somerset after all), which became a few while waiting for the pub’s kitchen to open. I reflected on the trip and whether it was a real adventure. I may have ridden further or faster before, but this had challenged me to get out again, be more spontaneous in my planning, and led me to discover some new places. It was a timely reminder to get out whatever the weather, as it’s never as bad as you think and the late autumn scenery is worth it. There’s also plenty of adventure to be had when you are that bit older and less fit. I asked Keith about whether he had any plans now he’s donated his adventure bike. He is thinking about walking the south coast path, which shows there’s always something out there. So, I’ll say to Keith and to all those who entered the competition to try and make those adventures happen one way or another. And make sure you celebrate with a glass of something when you’re done.

I wasn’t quite done as I still had to get home again. Two buses and a coach, from where I’m writing this part way into a 10 hour journey, and I will be done, glad to have been part of this adventure.

Thanks to Keith for his incredible generosity, to all the proprietors of cafes and pubs for taking in a sodden cyclist, to Mrs C for letting me go off and do this sort of thing, and to Al for inspiring all kinds of adventures and posting this. Also, best of luck to Lydia and everyone the bike passes onto.