Thursday 0700hrs. Homeward Bound.
This is it then. My final day. The first thing I see is the phone’s snooze button, dancing in and out of focus in a seductive waltz of amelioration. I resist her charms, knowing I’ve already traded an hour from the schedule. Trying not to think too much, I unwrap limbs and haul myself outdoors.
The sun has a 2 hour headstart on me, but hasn’t used the time to much effect. Riders stumble around in the grey light, with the odd gait of those who spend a lot of time at sea. I’m not quite awake. Eyes are operating in low polygon mode. Nobody seems to be casting shadows. 5 deep breaths. Go get breakfast.
Word indoors is the meteorologists aren’t done with us yet. The MET office has issued a Severe Weather Warning for the entire East side of England. The casualty report of yesterday runs at 64 abandons, with still more missing in action. We’re going to be in the thick of it again.
Honestly though. This is England. Verdant pastures. A green and pleasant land. Even when its bad, its little more than inclement. Scotland has recalibrated my tolerances, inuring me against foul weather and permanently waterproofing my spirits. I’m nearly home. It’ll be fine. Get back to the bike. Next time that sun rises, I’m done.
As I pour myself on to the seat, I am grateful for the supine layout of the bent. All around me, DF riders perform a delicate ballet of contact points, trying to pull away whilst simultaneously keeping weight off handlebar, saddle and pedals. As I move to join them, it rapidly becomes obvious that the losses in ergonomics have been traded for huge gains from physics. Press-ganging the mass of the earth into the war against inertia, they stand straight legged, letting gravity pull their weight down through the pedals. Horizontal, I have no such luxury, and at 0737 I perform a knees only exit, wobbling unconvincingly forward, still wedged in top.
A few minutes from the car park, I am pretty much up to speed. I find myself approaching a stationary rider, held motionless at a junction, arms stretched out like a scarecrow. I drift to a halt alongside and ask if he’s ok. He doesn’t turn toward me, and I begin to dread some Stephen King style reveal. Seems I get jumpy when I’m sleep deprived. In broken English, he explains he’s lost a page from his routesheet and is trying to retrace his steps Southward over the next 50 miles from memory. Paranoia aside, this is not a good thing. Firstly, we’re at the first instruction on a 30 line page. Second, we’re not going back via Wragby, so 90% of the next leg is going to be new ground. I explain as best I can, and am granted a simple utterance in return.
“I follow you.”
Seems to be a statement of intent rather than a request, but fair on, these roads are flat and featureless. A little company will make life easier. We head off together, crossing the railway, then the canal. The landscape remains unchanged as Yorkshire’s East Riding first gives way to Doncaster, then North Lincolnshire. On the approach to Sandtoft, we swing right into territories new, due South on a road so straight that we’re in Nottinghamshire by the time we make a turn. The promised rain is holding off, but the wind sits heavily against our chests, pulling at our shoulders, pushing against us in a constant wall of enervation. Without tree, turn, or town to vary the strain, its hard going just to keep the pedals turning. All the way, my silent companion sits 10 inches from my back wheel. I’m pretty sure that two bikes travel faster than one, but it sure would be nice if he’d take a turn at the front for a while.
Or just speak.
Doesn’t even have to be English.
I know I’m running out of sugar when resentment begins to build. Why won’t he go infront? The road doesn’t even have any turnings for the next 2 miles. Even then, it’s a SO:X. I pull towards the verge, motioning him around me. He slows, still on my back wheel, and waits. I stop.
Ok. Time to raid the stores. I take a few good mouthfuls of water, and wash down an energy gel. Take off the windproof. Stretch my legs. He’s going to follow me all the way. Might as well get on with it.
Back on the bike, waddle it up to speed then hook into the pedals. Push hard to keep momentum, swing South over the Idle, through Misterton, and over the canal as we exit. Passing under the railway, I spy a handful of riders up ahead, air pressure binding them into tight pelotons. Walkeringham, Beckingham, we pass each little group, but the wheelsucker stays with me.
We leave via a roundabout on the A631, joining the dual carriageway to approach Gainsborough. By the time we cross the Trent into Lincolnshire proper, we are resplendent in haulage and motorway style crash barriers. We get our first dose of rain as we climb Foxby Hill out of Gainsborough, slowly building as we tick off Somerby, Upton, Kexby, Willingham, Stow, Sturton.
Another long straight drag extends South East over the Till, tipping upwards at the end to reveal riders waiting to turn right along Lincoln Cliff towards North Carlton. Tucking in behind, we are rewarded with a view that extends back into Nottinghamshire. 60 metres up, over this kind of range, I can clearly see the weather system gathering strength. As we continue South towards Burton and over the A46, the heavens begin to open.
The steep descent into Lincoln sees our rising pace matched by an equivalent increase in the ferocity of the weather. We’re in full on cloud burst by the time we reach edge of town. I’m feathering the brakes as I go, pulling back on the levers when either wheel has traction, easing off whenever we start to drift. Peaking 23mph, I follow the GPS and routesheet into Yarborough Road, and am suddenly confronted by industrial size kitchen bins blocking the route ahead. I brake heavy, and claim the gentlest of nudges from the rear. Suffice to say that by the time I’ve scrambled a 3 pointer, my mute shadow is giving me a little more space on the road.
Lincoln city centre has diversion signs out. He and I spend the next few minutes taking exploratory stabs into cul-de-sacs of varying depth. Having collected a wet cyclist from each dead end, we eventually reach a critical mass where the wisdom of crowds comes into effect. Tendrils of the group slowly unravel towards the high street. We’re now moving at a far more pedestrian pace, and our rising numbers are gathering attention from the roadside.
“Why would you go for a ride TODAY?” (Hmmm… How to explain this? Technically, we went for a ride on Sunday…)
“Where are you going?” (The most credible answer seems to be Washingborough. We tried ‘London’, but people didn’t believe us.)
“Is it a race?” (I’m assuming they’ve spotted the numbers taped to our frames, as our pace is less than expeditious.)
We leave the heavier rain in Lincoln, heading due South on a very industrial looking Broadgate. Its dual carriageways take us over Pelham Bridge, the motor traffic increasing in velocity and frequency as the road widens. The raised pace better suits my gearing, but the weight of traffic is becoming nothing short of frightening. Fenced in by guardrails and ‘get in lane’ signs, there is little option to reconsider, until, just when I decide its clearly all gone wrong, the pack swings left onto a quiet lane, towards Canwick.
The change is instant. Traffic noise mutes immediately. The pace slows. Bird song. We idle along the hillside above the cemetery, claiming our first proper view of the imposing medieval cathedral, rising across the valley over Lincoln. As we descend under the railway, a scattering of houses spring up on our right. Less than a mile later, reversed by our new approach, the control appears on our left.
.
