The White Caterpillar – Part 2

We last saw Roger of Sicily dumping his scooter in a snowdrift, and setting off on foot to walk home in the blizzard of February 13, 2013.

Part 3 – The First Ice Field

All things considered, I was not as disheartened at the prospect of figuring out how to get home from the outskirts of central Leeds in a snowstorm as you might expect.

Firstly, I was quite well-dressed for the occasion – not a statement I have regular cause to make. I had on waterproof trousers, a water-proof and insulated coat, heavy gloves and – last but not least – a crash helmet. I was only wearing ordinary office shoes though, to which I will have cause for laudatory return to later.

I was unlikely to get too cold. However, walking in all that get up is fairly difficult.

The overtrousers are prone to a continuous downward trajectory, usually settling with the gusset a good six to eight inches below the ideal level. That means the upward lift of the armoured leg is more demanding than when otherwise unencumbered. Melting snow added to the weight.

I quickly gave up on wearing the crash helmet, as it made me look insane. I started off by carrying it, like a lady’s handbag. After half a mile or so, I realised that it now had about an inch of snow in the bottom of it. So I strapped it to my backpack instead.

Do you have a Buff? I have a Buff. It’s like a scarf for people who are not ponces. Mine is black with red flames on, because I am a rock and roll outlaw.

I pulled mine over my head in an LA gangsta bandana style. On viewing my image in a window – so on reflection in two senses – in fact, I looked more like an out-of-breath Hairy Biker Simon King.

Not like this...

...like this

Style, of course, was not my primary concern. Keeping my ears warm was.

So off I went, and I was soon trudging up a hill with no footpath – that is, I was walking in the road as there was no traffic coming at all.

And on and on it went.

I stopped at the occasional bus stop to catch my breath.

Eventually, I glanced behind and there was a bus coming! I started to run to the nearest bus stop.

Running after walking uphill in snow for a mile or so while wearing a lovely warm set of protective clothing was not – I soon discovered – something that made me go any faster. But I carried on anyway.

I’m the kind of person who would rather be half an hour early than a minute late. Knowing that the bus was coming – even if it would have had to suddenly accelerate to light speed to overtake me (a velocity Transdev's fleet has yet, to my knowledge, ever to attain) – I had to get to the bus stop as quickly as possible. Even if (i) that meant I moved in a manner that got me there no more quickly but used considerably more energy and (ii) it meant I had a long wait gasping for breath and watching the distant bus approaching.

I checked the distance I had walked the next day. It was just over a mile. It felt more like ten.

Part 4 – Hell Ride to Stanningley

As the first bus approached, my heart sank – 508!

But what’s that right behind it? Holy shit, it’s only ANOTHER BUS! And a 671!

The 671 goes to Greengates before turning off to Bradford city centre. Greengates is only a couple of miles from where I live. I can catch another bus from there or walk it, I thought. It will be a nice opportunity to catch my breath.

I got on board. The bus was largely deserted. There were maybe another seven or eight people on there.

I was steaming. That’s not some kind of metaphor. I was quite literally wreathed in a mist coming off my body. I doubt it was pleasant for the other passengers.

We had got to the crest of a hill where the road descends to Rodley when another bus driver – without bus – banged on the window.

He told the driver (and a woman passenger heading to Calverley who had by this time attached herself to the driver in a semi-official, self-appointed capacity as co-driver and general source of unsolicited advice) that there was NO WAY we could go down there, as there were a load of buses piled up unable to get out of the bottom of the dip.

And so began our journey to the outer limits.

The outer limits of West Yorkshire bus route 671, at any rate. We continued straight ahead.

Around 90 minutes later, we finally came into Rodley – probably about half a mile from where we had left the route.

We had been on a fairly wide diversion, which I – having nothing better to do than sit and try to dry my gloves, Buff and helmet out – followed closely on Google Maps.

What did we do before Google Maps, ladies and gentlemen? I suppose we got lost more. And were unable to follow and critique the improvisations of lost bus drivers.

Turns out, when heavy snow falls, a lot of people want to get home quickly. And the upshot of this is that nobody gets home quickly, because all the roads immediately grind to a halt under the weight of the extra traffic.

Weirdly, some of the roads we took were completely gridlocked and others were completely empty. Another reason to have Google Maps on at all times – you’re not then restricted to the four roads that everyone knows about.

Kasparek and Harrer: drying out

Returning to “The White Spider” I remembered reading that mountaineers typically resorted to drying out their wet clothes by wearing them, hoping that body heat would do the rest of the work.

Hanging over the back of the bus seat in front of me was clearly not having much of an effect on my gloves, so I put everything back on with the intention of steam cleaning my gear dry.

Very soon, I was shivering with cold but unwilling to take the soaked equipment off, as I would end up even colder.

We passed through Stanningley – past the big camping shop, where I wondered if I had time to hop off the bus and nip in for crampons – and into Farsley. Kids threw snowballs at the bus, as the heroic, off-route driver refused to pick them up. Soon we were crawling into Rodley. Very very slowly.

In the next thrilling and mercifully final instalment, Roger of Sicily returns heroically home – to be confronted with a two-year-old screaming for crisps.