NORTH POLE 2

2 On Approaching a Tyre-Hauler

April 2nd 2012 (Post UK Training)

Just twenty-four hours to go before departure and my final tyre-haul is behind me.  To commemorate the last, undignified drag I chose a favourite route: a convoluted labyrinth of footpaths, byways and bridleways that link two places I love. The route is one that I’ve trodden countless times, in strength-sapping sun, in pelting rain, with ice underfoot, but never before dragging a tyre.  My path leaves the pretty chaos of Sussex farmland, traverses the well-groomed, horse-rich paddocks of Surrey and wends its way over styles, through back gardens, along a country lane or two and – eventually – when the fun is beginning to wear out, up to the highest point in South-East England and a high point in my life.

Add a hip-bruising harness and a heavy tyre into the equation and the charm of the pilgrimage vanishes almost instantaneously. For the first time I see the route for what it is – a public right of way through gritted teeth.  It snares and snags, it fills the tyre with clay and bark, then muddy water.  There’s bramble to entangle you, barbed wire to menace you, and electric fence to confound you.  And, perhaps worst of all, there is nobody along the way to stop and chat with in that way that I’ve become so used to.

I don’t know for how many miles I’ve dragged a tyre in training but as I’ve hauled I’ve talked to more people than during a lifetime of long distance walking.  The conversational convention between walkers is limited to ‘morning’, ‘afternoon’, and (in the summer) ‘evening’.  Tyre hauling, however, attracts attention and often necessitates lengthy conversation. Having been the recipient of many different styles of address and greeting, I have come to the conclusion that there is a right way and a wrong way to approach a tyre-hauler, and as I contemplate my imminent retirement from the sport I feel obligated to pass on my now extensive knowledge.

As I trained, the young mountain bikers were easily the most engaging. I shared tea with some, took cash (for charity) off others. The thought of a walk to the North Pole rendered some dewy eyed, others desperate with undisguised envy. Plenty were openly impressed.  One begged to come with me.  Most asked questions I was absolutely unable to answer.  All were more interested in the technical clothing than any other aspect of the expedition.

The outdoor-types that don’t stop and chat, certainly like to throw out a witticism as they pass.  I suggest, however, that if you should happen upon a tyre-hauler and are thinking of approaching one, avoid jesting.  Most jokes are heard several times a day, and most aren’t funny the first time.

(There’s the slew of word play jokes. Tyred-d, tyre-ing, tyre-some and every variation you can imagine. Not funny… There’s the emergency rescue strand. ‘AA are cutting back are they?’ Not funny… There’s the ‘spare tyre’ jokes. Never funny.)

I did receive one literary-based heckle as I heaved my tyre through freshly ploughed clay at the edge of a sticky field adjacent to the Titch Hill Road as it crosses the South Downs at Steyning Bowl. “You can do it, Joey!” a voice yelled from an open car window, and I smiled just a fraction.

For reference, I’d also suggest that you don’t ignore a tyre-hauler. Not to notice that a fellow walker has a tyre attached to them just makes you look odd.

Try not, also, to mutter ‘it takes all sorts’, particularly if you’re outside a church, particularly if you’re in conversation with a vicar, particularly if you don’t add any type of greeting or acknowledgement directly to the tyre-hauler.  Particularly if you sneer as you look the tyre-hauler up and down.  It just makes you look un-Christian.

There is, however, a definitive greeting: an educated and considerate approach, the correct exchange that is guaranteed to be well received . I was the joy-filled beneficiary of this on a number of occasions, but it was never more masterfully delivered than by a distinguished looking older gentleman in a Barbour jacket and flat cap on the South Downs Way between Amberley and Storrington.

As he approached he raised an eyebrow.  Without altering his pace and barely making eye-contact he growled “North or South?”

“North”, I panted, not altering my pace either.

We passed. I looked around, he didn’t. He did, however, raise his hat, with the confidence of a man who assumes he’s being observed but doesn’t mind if he’s not.  And in a clear voice that rang out against the morning still, he barked ‘respect’. And continued on his way.

Perfect