Have you ever said, with the benefit of time in your favour—say about three to four weeks—“Yeah, I’ll do that”?

You might even appear enthusiastic.

As the day approaches, though, you start to think what could go wrong.

That is exactly what was going through my mind as we made our way into King’s Lynn for the start of this adventure.

I had put my name down at least three weeks earlier.

Of all things, we were following a learner driver into town when they veered towards the nearside kerb.

We all had to start somewhere, but then they over‑corrected and drifted into the outer lane, which was occupied by us.

Speed was low, so nothing catastrophic was likely, but it got me into overthinking mode.

What on earth happens, I mused, if this same learner is out on the roads I will be using in an hour’s time?

I would have no protection and, worst‑case scenario, it could be catastrophic.
Well, for me anyway.

We were making our way to Thoresby College.

Regular readers will recognise it as the area HQ of Vision Norfolk, the incredible charity now 220 years old, founded in the year of Admiral Lord Horatio Nelson’s death.

See, I haven’t ignored him altogether.

What was I about to do here?

In the past, VN had facilitated off‑road driving, audio‑described theatre trips and guided historic tours of King’s Lynn.

A little while back I had received an email from the Hub Manager, Penny Whitby, who thought I might be interested in taking part in a bike ride.

She even suggested that, should I survive, I might like to write a piece on it.

So we arrived at VN’s office—Jane with a copy of my life insurance tucked away in her handbag, oh ye of little faith—where we met the rest of the team.

A quick mental note: Penny was not taking part.

Not sure how I felt about that.

To be fair, though, they had laid on another Penny.

Penny Milligan is another visually impaired biking enthusiast, and I was pleased to meet her—primarily because she had taken part previously and was still upright and breathing normally.

Nothing seemed amiss.

I couldn’t actually see whether she was sporting any scars from a horrendous collision somewhere out on the country roads of North‑West Norfolk.

Please don’t think, for one minute, that they were about to place Penny and me atop supreme racing bicycles.

No, we were going on the back of tandems.

Yes, you heard right—tandems.

Two extremely brave pilots had put themselves forward to point the machines in the right direction.

That is when we were introduced to a pair of Colins.

Colin Elston was to be my pilot, while Colin Blaskett would be Penny’s eyes for the morning.

I was informed that my Colin was a doctor.

“What? A medical doctor?” I enquired, thinking this was taking health, safety and welfare to a different level.

“Yes,” said Dr Colin.

Woe, I thought.

If VN take things this seriously, I was expecting the safety briefing to last the rest of the morning before we ventured anywhere beyond Thoresby College’s quadrangle.

Not a bit of it.

We were handed high‑vis jackets with BLIND CYCLIST printed on the back, along with helmets and gloves.

Seat adjustment was checked next and, in my case, bicycle clips were secured to the bottoms of my legs.

My mind works in mysterious ways sometimes, but it reminded me of old music‑hall gags extolling the uses of bicycle clips for other reasons altogether—usually centred around fear.

For your information, the other Colin was a mechanical engineer.

You never know—his skills might be needed somewhere out on the course.

Dr Colin showed me how to mount and dismount.

I hoped I would end the morning with the same number of each.

It got me thinking about pilots again.

They aim to finish their careers with an equal number of take‑offs and landings.

Into Traffic and Out to the Countryside

We were off.

To say it felt a little strange to begin with was an understatement.

I was a tad wobbly at first.

I think of myself as semi‑fit, but even I could feel the horsepower being generated through my thighs.

I was convinced it was not going to end well.

Then, almost without warning, we were out in the traffic of KL.

Did I feel vulnerable?

Bloody right I did.

“By the way,” said Dr Colin, “because you are on the back, you will need to make the hand signals.”

That had already occurred to me.

Our learner‑driver friend came back into my thoughts, but I don’t think those were the hand signals he had in mind.

For some reason, I found indicating left much easier than right.

It took me back to my footballing days as a goalkeeper facing a penalty kick.

I always used to fling myself to the left and often saved those spot‑kicks.

Invariably, though, the penalty taker would roll it into the other corner.

Same here—nearly every turning seemed to be to the right.

I did get used to it in the end and think I will be ready next time—if there is a next time.

The traffic around KL appeared inordinately heavy, although it was probably no different to normal.

What were drivers thinking as they approached us from behind?

After all, I had BLIND CYCLIST on my back.

“Give him a wide berth,” I reckoned, was their first thought, as I doubt they realised we were a tandem at first.

It didn’t take long to get into the swing of things.

Once we left the Old College and hit the streets, we started to build momentum.

It was enlightening to discover a network of paths, free of cars, for cyclists and pedestrians.

You can’t get all the way to Castle Rising without joining main roads, though.

Given that this was my first time in the saddle for at least 50 years, I found it a little hairy.
Like everything that day, I ended up getting used to it.

I was incredibly pleased to realise that not all car drivers are ignorant of the dangers cyclists face.

Most held back, giving us time and room to manoeuvre.

Perhaps the sign on my back encouraged a little self‑protection.

Who knows—and who cares.

Other road users were to be applauded.

I may have the order of landmarks slightly out of kilter, but once we left the urban noises behind, I became aware of beautiful birdsong accompanying us almost all the way.

Blooms in hedgerows flashed past in my peripheral vision—white lamps against a dark grey background.

Dr Colin informed me we were passing rhododendron bushes.

Magnificent.

My mind filled in the missing colours.

No wonder cyclists love their hobby.

It offers the true meaning of freedom—fresh air, wind in my hair and great company.

Next came the Woottons, South and North.

I had assumed they were more suburban than rural.

They are not.

They offer a bliss rarely associated with towns and cities.

We swung past an open green—a playing field—with what I felt was a grand pavilion.

This wasn’t pointed out to me, so perhaps my brain filled in details that weren’t there.
It does that from time to time.

Usually it doesn’t matter, but occasionally it doesn’t end well—especially when it tells me a door is open when it is not.

I should use my hands more often.

Onion Corner, well known to touring cyclists, soon appeared.

I am not sure how to define the smell of onions—odour, aroma or scent.

Odour conjures odious.
Aroma conjures coffee.
So I’ll settle for scent.
I do like the scent of onions.
It is glorious.

To my surprise, though, Dr Colin informed me it was wild garlic, not onion.

As I often say, every day is a school day.

I checked it out later and Mr Google said it smelt like cultivated garlic—slightly sweeter and akin to chives or spring onions.

Okay, Dr Colin, I’ll let you have that one.

We were travelling along nothing more than a lane.

Before the bypass was built, this was the main KL‑to‑Hunstanton road.

Hard to imagine now, given the traffic on the newer road.

I began to think Castle Rising was further than I remembered.

We pulled into a lay‑by to decide where coffee and cake would be taken.

Penny observed that it felt like we had gone through CR without stopping and wondered if plans had changed.

The Colins informed us that we had—although there had never really been a plan.

This is where my cursed eyes are not to be relied upon.

I never even noticed we had passed through Castle Rising.

Instead, we would head to the Royal Estate at Sandringham.

This, I was informed, would take us up the indomitable Donkey Pond Hill.

This was probably the most challenging part of the ride.

Coffee and cake were most welcome.

Cake, Conversation and the Ride Home

I learned of a rather nice tradition, which I was not prepared to argue with:

It is the pilots who buy the first ever coffee and cake.

Fair enough.

As long as we aren’t stopping at a Michelin‑starred restaurant next time.

My guide plonked me at a table while the Colins and Penny went inside to choose our fare.

Penny returned first and we had a pleasant chat.

She had come in from near Wisbech and, as it transpired, is a parkrunner.

We both know the same family who have also been visited by visual impairment.
Small world.

I know it makes me sound nosy, but I always like to know what condition has afflicted my fellow blindees.

Penny suffers from Rod Monochromatism—Achromatopsia.

The name gives it away.

Her cones have not developed properly, meaning she sees the world in monochrome and with reduced visual acuity.

One day these damned conditions will be a thing of the past.

The Colins returned with drinks and food.

It was all rather sociable.

We chatted about family heritage, careers—everything.

It turns out that one of them, I think Colin E, had a nephew who trained as a fighter pilot.

It costs us, the taxpayers, £2 million to train these amazingly skilful individuals.

Reflecting on this made me appreciate how many types of pilot there are.

Fighter pilots, passenger aircraft pilots, harbour pilots—and, most important of all, tandem pilots.

I am sure that, at the back of their minds, every time they go out, they must consider that they might not return.

They put enormous faith in passengers they have never met behaving correctly on the backs of their bikes.

In my case, they are carting the best part of 14 stone, and I only need to move my bulk incorrectly once and we could be under a car.

Indeed, we did have one little wobble.

We pulled up on a cycle path parallel to the traffic when Dr Colin said we were to go straight over.

I expected to go straight on.

I hadn’t noticed we were alongside the cars, so that is literally what I did.

What he meant was that we needed to turn left into the carriageway before crossing the road at right angles.

Tragedy averted, we enjoyed the rest of the morning.

This is where Engineer Colin came into his own.

On the way out we had experienced difficulty with the gearing.

No worries—what a team.

One Colin for medical needs, the other for technical matters.

Cogs repaired, we prepared for the trip back to base.

Thoresby College is down near the quay on the River Great Ouse.

Our original destination of Castle Rising meant we had been going one way—up.

It felt like we only climbed higher after CR until the King’s park.

The way back was much easier on the thighs and, my word, we achieved some great speeds—mostly downhill.

Since being diagnosed as blind, I have enjoyed some fantastic experiences, mostly thanks to Vision Norfolk, but this is right up there.

It won’t be long before I am searching the shelves of our local Lycra stockist for an outfit.

I know you are picturing the ever‑maligned MAMIL—Middle‑Aged Man in Lycra.

Let me disavow you of that thought.

I am nothing like that.

I will be one of the original OMILs—Old Man in Lycra—and proud of it.

Will I do this again?

Trust me, you can put your mortgage on it.

I smell an accessible triathlon coming on—if such a thing exists.

It was truly amazing.

I wondered where the word tandem comes from.

It comes from the Latin word meaning length.

It first referred to horses placed one in front of the other to pull a carriage.

When bicycles for two became fashionable in the nineteenth century, the leap was obvious.