Getting Kicked on Route 66

National Route 66 is a cycle path linking the two great maritime port cities of Hull on the east coast and Liverpool on the Atlantic Gateway.

Me and the Boy got out our mountain bikes and rode a part of the 129 or so mile journey. Tell the truth we did five and a half miles and then back again, so technically still only five and a half miles of the route although we congratulated ourselves on the accumulated eleven miles.It was only a week after The Boys' big crash, bang, wallop and he had done well to overcome his fears of bike wheels and uneven ground.

I certainly think we had tackled one of the most challenging sections, comprising urban landscape, derelict and active docklands, part built retail park and riverside path. Within these sections we encountered further hazards.

At the urban end, closest to the city centre embarcation point we were thwarted in our journey by palisade fencing and temporary barriers across what should have been a clear run. This was because of regeneration of the central area of Hull. It does take some considerable column inches in the local newspapers and papering of lamp posts with Statutory Notices of the stopping up of a Public Right of Way and to all intents and legal purposes this had been done to the letter. It was just that someone had forgotten to set up or otherwise indicate a diversionary route around said obstructions. We were left to our own initiatives to devise a circulatory and tortuous loop in order to get back to within a couple of feet from where we had been unceremoniously halted in reasonably full pedal about twenty minutes before.

The active docklands were similarly protected against trespass. Where once you could walk clear across the dock on the decks of moored vessels there was now clear water apart from one coastal steamer and a duck-egg blue painted Fisheries Patrol Ship. However, the shed and quays were alive and full of large rolled steel girders, wrapped timbers from Russia and large mounds of unidentified minerals. Fork lift trucks and tracked dock cranes were at rest after a busy day of logistical movements. Me and The Boy had a birds eye, or seagulls eye view from the elevated walkway which had been built above the vast undulating concrete roof of the old trawling sheds.

Next, the derelict docklands. Large buildings of a former Hull based shipping line,  at one time the largest privately owned fleet in the world, were now an empty shell, holes in the roof the home of pigeons, holes in the glazed apertures indicating it to be the playground of the local kids. We grimaced as we zig-zagged in an attempt to avoid the shards of broken glass and the lumps of fallen masonry. The air dried flowers at the memorial to lost trawlermen were a striking sight of former life in a wasteland. Another unsafe lock gate had been segregated from public access. The detour, over worn engineering brick cobbles, led past a lush green meadow although we knew it was actually an abandoned, silted up and overgrown dock basin. Various large hoardings promised redevelopment for housing and trade but they were green with lichen , wind savaged and representing only empty promises.

The retail park, resembling any other retail park anywhere in the country was next. The signage was for DFS, SCS, various warehouse operations. pets at home, computer and electrical sales. Standing apart in style and about a 1000 years in form, the gloss green pantiles of the roof of a Chinese Restaurant. Between the picture windows overlooking the river and the cycle path a young man, worst for wear at about 5.30pm was urinating in what he thought was a concealed corner. We rode past, eyes front. A few feet beyond we had the misfortune to pass through a small pile of vomit. Yet within a few more pedal revolutions we were amongst families on an early-bird tea at a pub, a converted former warehouse oblivious to any personal drama enfolding near by.

We left commerce and recreation behind as we reached the riverside path. A century earlier this was known as Cod Farm where the filleted fish were hung out on lines to dry naturally. After a brief use as a go-karting venue it was derelict but still wind swept. A few anglers were taking advantage of the high tide with equally high expectations although the most likely catch would be a slimey, wriggling eel.

Me and The Boy pedalled on with the Humber Suspension Bridge in clear sight. The track was narrow and rutted. We would certainly bear the scratches and scars from the brambles and thorns which threatened to overwhelm the path. The traffic on the A63 was thunderous being seperated from us only by a rickety wooden fence, breached in places and plugged with fluorescent cones.

We were close to home now. The blue signs for Route 66 pointed encouragingly for the remaining one hundred and twenty three and  a half miles but we felt we had experienced enough life in a small part of just one day.