Wild swimming has always appealed to me, just so long as I didn't have to enter any water. Well, specifically, cold water. It's because of Raynaud's Phenomenon, or as my dad's Hull accent called it, 'bad saircyulairtion'. More than a minute immersed in anything except a bath, and my hands and feet (as did his) risk turning white, immobile and painful.
While touring, I've enjoyed the odd summer-warmed German lake, or the frisson of hot springs in Iceland and New Zealand. But the idea of shivering under a Yorkshire waterfall in March never appealed. Nor did the prospect of the helicopter ride afterwards. Air ambulances are busy enough already. I've not so much been Man From Atlantis as Man From Londis.
Until I got a wetsuit. To my astonishment and delight, even frigid local lakes felt warm and inviting thanks to my Zone3 kit (wetsuit, gloves, socks, hat and all), in miracle sci-fi fabrics. Instantly, cold-blooded landlubber became thermally self-sufficient seal. Over twenty years since Roger Deakin's lyrical book Waterlog helped launch the wild swim boom, I could at last put a toe in the water myself.
But the archetypal wild swim normally involves a drive, then a half-mile scramble up a muddy footpath. I needed to do wild swimming like I do everything: by bike and train. So I wanted a spectacular and rewarding ride in its own right, but also a range of wild and outdoor submersions: waterfalls; rivers small and large; lakes; lidos; seaside. And all right on the route. Lean the bike and hop in - and perhaps swiftly out - without having to lock it up and hike.
It took a while to work out, but this one ticked the boxes. Kirkby Stephen to Morecambe, through some of my favourite Yorkshire Dales and the Lune Valley. Here's how it went...
East of Eden
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GANARY A COALMINE
The James Brown tune 'It's a Man's Man's Man's World' comes on the radio, filling the coach, and does nothing for my pre-event nerves as I sit surrounded by serious-looking, wiry, tanned men in Lycra. It's 6.30am, pitch black outside and I'm feeling very out of my depth as a relative newcomer to the world of clipless pedals and hurting for fun. Last night's stress dream involved being very unprepared to get married and being handed my great-grandmother-in-law-to-be's hideous silver dress with lace trim to wear minutes before the ceremony was due to start. I'll let you psychoanalyse that one.
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