Eccles Cakes and Bike Oil

Yesterday was one of those lost days.

I should qualify that statement.

I did not stay in my pyjamas all day and binge out on chipsticks whilst watching Star Wars in its entirety. I remained sober and free from noxious and hallucinatory substances. I did not decide to just stay in bed and doze in and out of the backdrop of neighbourhood noises.

It was in fact better than all of the foregoing.

A lost day is one of those perfect days when time flies because I am out on my bike with my son.

We were keen to put in a few miles after an enforced lay-off with cold and sniffles and set out in humid, balmy weather with our sights set on a long circulatory route from Hull taking in some of the East Yorkshire Wolds, up to Stamford Bridge, across to York, down to Selby and then expecting a tail wind assisted easterly leg back to our starting point. All in, between 90 and that elusive 100 miles.

The first few miles are always a time for tight muscles and respiratory organs to settle in and makes for a bit of a painful and rather humbling experience. It is often a physical barrier to just get through but gives an opportunity if half hearted or feeble to make excuses to give up.

Hull is on a wide, flat flood plain and so any venturing beyond the 10 mile radius of the city westwards involves some knee-grinding ascents-nothing too dramatic but enough of a gradient to invoke heavy breathing and perspiration, more so in my 52 year old body than that of my fitter 20 year old son.

It takes 11 miles of pressing down on the pedals to get to a nice downhill, a sweeping road down to North Newbald. The tarmac shimmers in the midday heat giving an almost three dimensional effect to the chalk graffitti of "Go Wiggo" and "Ride Faster" from the recent Tour of Yorkshire.

The main road, including part of a Roman one, is busy on a saturday morning and we bounce along the roughest parts just out from the verge, dodging potholes and bits of discarded lorry tyre tread. There is also a surprising and disturbing amount of roadkill to avoid without moving into the path of fast moving vehicles approaching from behind. The small stuff, hedgehogs and birds are pretty well flattened from traffic and seamless to ride over. It is best to swerve around the raised, fresh carcass of a fox or, sadly in the villages, a much loved domestic cat.

Through Market Weighton we are again into open countryside and now running at a ninety degree bias to the day trippers heading for the coast making for less stressful cycling altogether.

Some low gear inducing sharp ups are compensated for by freewheeling downs into small hamlets. The gals on horses have been out and about based on the amount of manure on the carriageway, yet more debris to avoid.

Pocklington is a short rest stop for home made flapjack and a slug of coca-cola, always a fillip for depleted body sugar levels. The next 8 miles are fast, even with an annoying cross -wind, on good roads for a change and we soon get to Stamford Bridge. It is a crossing point for the River Derwent with a narrow, single passage stone bridge which is ridiculously inadequate for the volume of traffic for a main transport artery. Consequently the tailbacks are tremendous and we have to wait for what seems five minutes to negotiate the bottleneck.

Last time we rode the next leg into York was closely following the professional peleton of the aforementioned Tour of Yorkshire. Enthused with seeing the race at close quarters and being cheered by the roadside crowds mistaking us for stragglers we fair ripped along but how different in normal circumstances. Then, the road seemed to be flat . In reality now, it was slightly uphill and that pesky breeze took its toll.

Retreating seasiders were reluctant or nervous to pass us and so we accumulated a lengthy following, in effect mimicking that outdated bridge but in the opposite direction.

York was as usual teeming with visitors so we tried a long looping alternative route through the leafy University grounds. It was very cycle friendly with designated lanes and calming measures leading eventually to the east bank of the River Foss and a sensible bridge, the arched stainless steel Millenium albeit only for pedestrians.

A wooden bench with an inscribed brass plate "Memories" was actually quite comfortable after 3 hours on a racing bike saddle and we scoffed Eccles Cakes and some iced buns sourced from a petrol station ,washed down with luke warm water from our frame mounted plastic bottles.

This would prepare us for the next three to four hours, hopefully at least. (to be continued)