Lads Lads Leeds

Yorkshire is an English county with a long and proud sporting tradition. Football, rugby and cricket are all hugely popular, and for a few years in the 2010s professional cycling was also woven tightly into the sporting fabric of this part of the world.

It was announced that the 2019 world cycling championships would be held in the UK, and as a fan I thought it would be good to attend, so I cajoled two of my closest friends—Aidan and Noely—into joining me on what would turn out to be the first of many (mis)adventures together. The men's race was scheduled to go from Leeds to Harrogate via an up hill and down dale 280 km circuit of the Yorkshire countryside. We'd talked about it for a while, but when we came to actually arranging it we'd left it a little too late, and the only accommodation available was a hostel in Leeds city centre, which was basically a converted pub with several rooms containing bunkbeds. It looked like prison, just with less security.

The beds weren't allocated, instead you were given a room number and had to secure an available bed by putting your stuff on it. Given the price (it was dirt cheap), and the no questions asked check-in policy, it was unsurprising that the overwhelming majority of the clientele weren't exactly from the upper echelons of society. I don't think I've ever seen as many home-made tattoos in one place, and some of them were even spelt correctly.

My initial thoughts were that it was exactly the kind of place I'd stay in if I was a murderer on the lam.

Now, I’m no snob, however, I feel that once a man reaches a certain age he should expect certain standards. I was only 44 years old, my standards were still quite low, yet these digs were not even trying to meet them. The fact that someone removed my things from the bunk I’d chosen, and placed them on another bunk while I visited the bathroom, did little to assuage my concerns. When I got back to the room there was a heavy-set Eastern European gentleman, with a head that looked like a crudely-hewn block of granite, sitting on my former bunk. For a microsecond he fixed me with a Slavic stare. I chose not to make a scene.

By this time we were hungry, having not eaten since setting off that morning. Noely was our driver, and due to his experimental approach to navigation and route planning, a quick jaunt across the Pennines had turned into an epic tour of Northern England, and possibly parts of Southern Scotland.

Before stepping into the Leeds night, I took a look at my belongings on my new bed, and wondered if I'd ever see them again.

‘Plans’ were made for dinner. Noely had been to Leeds before and seen a Thai restaurant that he thought we should try. He didn’t know where it was, and he couldn’t remember the name, but he knew that he’d recognise it once he saw it. We wandered around the city for over an hour. Each new street was definitely the right one, according to Noely, before realising he was mistaken, turning another corner, and announcing that, no, actually, THIS was the right one.

Aidan was losing the plot, and gave Noely an ultimatum: “If it’s not down this street, we’re eating at the next place we come to that sells food, no matter what it is.” Followed by “Unless it’s vegan.”

Then we saw it. I thought I was having a hunger induced hallucination, because on the next corner was a brightly coloured distillation of Thai cliches. It was like Bangkok had vomited. Lit by an over abundance of neon, it featured an elaborately decorated tuk-tuk, reclining buddhas, and had Muay Thai memorabilia all over the place. I think I even saw James Wattana’s waistcoat. It was gaudy, it was tacky, and, more importantly, it was fully booked.

Noely was crestfallen, his picture-perfect Siamese dream having been shattered. Aidan was furious, all he wanted was a plate of hot food, and Noely had dragged him halfway around Leeds to the only place where he couldn't get one. I opted to be the voice of reason, after all, there's no point crying over spilt coconut milk. Looking around, I noticed another Thai restaurant on the opposite side of the road. It was sparsely decorated, plainly lit, and had the thing we most needed at that exact moment: Empty tables.

"We're going there" I announced, and it was the best decision I made all weekend.

Over dinner that night an idea was born. It was simple, and certainly not unique, yet it has had a profound effect on my life over the last few years. Noely, between gulps of the Singha beer he was using to combat the heat of his Tom Yum Goong, said "We should do this more often!" He offered no further suggestion on the topic, being purely an ideas man, but a seed was sown.

Since then we’ve been all over Europe, ostensibly to watch bikes races, although, in reality the races themselves were just a backdrop. Sometimes we didn’t even get to see one, like Strade Bianche, which we missed by a whole week. The reason we go to these places doesn't really matter. What matters are the shared experiences, and the memories gathered along the way. From small incidents, like the drunk barmaid in Siena who kept getting everyone's order wrong, to the big mishaps, like Noely booking his flight to Florence on the wrong day, something always goes wrong, and we always laugh about it afterwards.

We've come a long way since then, quite literally, and not much has changed, except we book our accommodation well in advance, and we don't let Noely choose the restaurant.