It was supposed to be a straightforward Saturday ride. After breaking my finger earlier this week, I’d mapped out a safe, flat and simple route along the Chesterfield canal—a solid 46 miles of towpath—but as these things often go, it spiralled into nearly a 70-mile day. By the time I actually finished the path, the reality of my location suddenly dawned on me. The station I needed in Gainsborough wasn’t just around the corner. It was a solid half-hour ride away.
I had already done 50+ miles at this point. I was absolutely shattered. I hadn’t eaten or drunk a single thing in over two hours, the temperature had plummeted, and it was pitch black. My train was due in 28 minutes, and missing it meant waiting an hour in the freezing cold for the next one. So, I emptied whatever was left in the tank and powered through the dark, rolling up to the platform just in time.
It’s fine, I told myself, I’ll grab something on the train.
I dragged my bike aboard, sat down, and immediately realised my fatal error: it was a Northern train. There is no food or drink for sale. Mint. I didn’t have a drop of water on me, and I was staring down an hour and twenty minutes back to Barnsley.
It was a Saturday night, so the carriages were absolutely packed with people in varying states of steaming drunk. I genuinely debated walking up and down the aisle to ask one of them if I could buy a warm lager and a tub of Pringles off them. But the universe decided to test me—the unmistakable scent of stale vomit began seeping out of an exposed bin bag right beside my seat. That was just enough to put me off the embarrassing trek up and down the next carriage.
An hour ticked by. My mouth was like sandpaper. As we rolled into Sheffield, I was practically fighting the physical urge to abandon the train, wheel my bike straight over to the Sheffield Tap, down a pint, absolutely destroy twelve bags of crisps, and just catch the next train home. But I was simply too cold and too exhausted to move. It’s only 30 more minutes, I reasoned with myself. Just wait Josh it’s fiiiiiiine.
The train stopped at platform 3B. One minute passed. Then two. Then three. By the time six minutes had gone by with no movement, I checked my phone. It turned out the train was scheduled for a seven-minute wait before setting off again. I was absolutely wounded. If I had known, I could have sprinted to the platform vending machine and back. At this point, I hadn’t had a drink in over three hours.
Dozens of passengers stumbled past me to find their seats. They were clutching pre-mixed cocktails and three-for-six-quid miniature wines. At that exact moment, I was that desperate I think I’d have even knocked back a warm Carling (alright maybe not that bad) but I just didn’t have the cheek to ask a stranger to sell me something and look like a pillock.
The train finally lurched forward. I sat slumped in the single fold-down seat beside the bike rack, completely resigned to my fate and now fully acclimatised to the maturing scent of the vomit bin. A group of lads walked past, but the last bloke in the group stopped. He looked at the bike and just started chatting. I’ll be completely honest, I don’t remember a single word of the first few minutes of that conversation. Every ounce of my attention was completely locked onto the open can of Monster energy drink he was sipping between sentences. It looked so unbelievably cold and moist. Sorry haha!
Eventually, my brain caught up. He was telling me it was a nice bike, that his 13 year old brother was really getting into riding, and we ended up having a really good chat about the trails up at Greno. I had been out of the house since 11 AM, hadn’t spoken to a single soul all day, and it was now creeping up on 9 PM. Despite the state I was in, the conversation was genuinely appreciated. I think he could tell I was in absolute pieces. I was still covered in sweat, my eyes were half-closed, and I looked like I’d been dragged through a hedge backwards. He shook my hand, told me it was great to meet me, and turned to walk down the aisle. But at the very last second, he stopped, looked back, and said, “You don’t want a can of Monster, do you?”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a fresh, unopened can. I could see the condensation on the metal. Ice cold.
The stars completely aligned. I cracked it open and downed the entire thing in one go, practically feeling my soul return to my body. Maybe he was being nice, maybe he thought I needed it, or maybe he’d just snagged a two-for-whatever deal and couldn’t be bothered carrying it. Whatever his reason, that tiny bit of human niceness absolutely made my day. If you’re out there sir, I hope you have a great day. Your random act certainly made mine.
Trail Talks Episode #128: Out Saturday 3rd October 2026