possibly. But that's where the idea of the time trial came from. It's such a simple thing. It's a sheer joy of speed kind of thing (albeit that some of us will think of twelve miles an hour as speedy and others will be whizzing along at twice that). And what I'm hoping for is that the simplicity affords a greater sense of something shared.
I was encouraged a little by the reaction to this.
a lot has been written, and all of it wonderful to read. I'm going to indulge myself.....
the run down to Goole is what it is. For what it's worth I like it a great deal. I like the flatness, the big sky, the far-off lights of the power station, and (while they would not be obvious to those who've not done it at night) I like the turbines, which are, without question, changing the face of that part of the world. I like Goole. It might be an acquired taste, but if you've lately been in possession of teenagers, there's something charming about the boys and girls wending their way home to parents tucked up in bed. I like the steel bridges and the ships in the middle of town, and the dampness of the air that probably plays havoc with the lungs of the elderly.
But....most of all I like the Isle of Axholme. It's the flatness, the absence of hedges, the geometry of the roads dictated by the flow of water at high tide, the remnants of the past struggles that bear a bit of reading up. I know every yard of tarmac that arcs from Swinefleet east and south to Garthorpe and I know that if the weather is kind the flatness and the bends make it the kind of road that is thrilling to ride at speed..
So, having despatched Team Fast in the hope of making our date at Garthorpe more or less to the minute, I lead the rest of the ride out of Goole, along the A161, and to the turn at Swinefleet, where a chilled Charlie was waiting to direct traffic. Having sorted out a relief I found myself on the back road with one other. The wind was next to nothing. The road was open. It was a float morning, but without the morning. The bike had an idea.
Those of you who doubt the bike should have been there. A touch on the pedals for three or four revolutions and I was thirty metres clear of my companion. A shift of gear, a nod to the church, and a touch more and the gap simply stretched away. Where the road was broken the bike snaked perhaps an inch, perhaps less to the side of the holes. Where there was the slightest of rises, the bike simply swallowed them and then plunged down the shallow descent, taking another click on the changer. I'd rolled down to Goole on a 53/17. It takes four near-imperceptible shifts to get to 53/13, and that's how the bike wanted it, demanding that I take the tightest corners at a screaming pace, diving from the far side of the road, clipping the apex, before running out to the gravel on the verge, all at the same Mississippi Half-Step Toodle-oo cadence, the kind of cadence that makes the finest team out of saddle, handlebars and pedals.
There's a village halfway shy of Garthorpe, with two blind ninety degree bends. The bike wasn't doing caution. In to the left-hander without so much as a breath on the brakes, then cutting from the right side of the road to the left side before the right-hander, and then, upright, spinning southward, just my front light keeping the moon company. The right and left just north of Garthorpe went the same way, shot surface notwithstanding, and then, in to the village, the houses pressed close to the street, at the kind of pace that would have been just plain uncivilised at a more civilised hour.
I popped in to the village hall, checked the trestles loaded down with sandwiches and cake, and then went back out of the village to the open land, there to wait for the rest of the crew. There are two waymarking spots on the FNRttC worth fighting a duel for - the last one before Faygate and this blank road north of Garthorpe. At Faygate the advancing bike lights shine through the trees Spielberg stylee before they hit the top of the rise, and then cast lines ahead as they come down the hill in to the village. At Garthorpe the lights make a map of the Isle underneath the vast flat plane of the sky. They turn left, turn right, describing the ditches dug so farsightedly in the eighteenth century, The gigantic berm that keeps out the sea is, perhaps, ten feet above the heads of the cyclists, a backdrop of some significance. Sea, sky, straight lines, piercing lights - Kasimir Malevich would have torn his heart out to paint it. My heart soared like a dove as the Fridays hove in to view, two by two, to be accompanied to the crossroads and directed to the village hall, and I suppose that I might have made my way up and down the high street some ten times before Mr. Wow and the Tail End Charlies rolled in to town.
The rest......if I'm honest.... it gets us there. I love those first views of the bridge, and I love the bridge itself. Hull is cool. Cafe Pasaz is the coolest thing in Hull. The train that takes us all the way to Kings Cross is a delight. All of which means nothing without the company, but if you're in great company why not do great stuff? That said.....if, in ten years time I'm leafing through what remains of my memory, it's the ten miles from Goole to Garthorpe I'll call on.
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