It’s all going south… Hopefully, not in a metaphorical sense.
To adopt the old football cliche: very much a day of two halves. I’m sorry for those of you wanting to read the drama of a day 3 or a day 5 because this one was a quieter one. We posted another big distance again today of over 97 miles but just before mid-afternoon we had managed less than half that figure, so needed to put our heads down and grind out the remaining mileage.
After breakfast, and posing in front of a Premier Inn sign with another lovely member of staff – a born salesman, Martyn is always trying a promotional angle – we set off due south.
Komoot behaved really well today, although we had a few moments at the start of the day, when a slight delay with orientation – perhaps as the phone picks up a new satellite signal? I’m no expert on these things – caused us to go back on ourselves and, at one time, ride down a bank of grass and buttercups.
I’m sorry I don’t get the chance to reply to all your comments (I just don’t get time) and I know many of them have been about Komoot and offering alternatives – if I hadn’t been in a bit of spiral outside Shrewbury, what3words would have been the obvious solution but it didn’t occur to me at the time. I’m finding Google Maps isn’t really working for me here and I can’t work out why and, anyway, Komoot is the system we know and for almost all the time, she is reliable, tries to take you on safer routes and is very user friendly in terms of her interface, so even though we have fallen out a couple of times, we’ll stick with her. Although how she might handle London could be interesting!
We were soon on the busy roads of the north-east, heading west of Sunderland, through Chester-le-Street, past the less picturesque parts of Durham towards Darlington. There’s really not much to write about here, as they all looked like generic urban roads and even the shops and buildings looked homogenized copies of shops and buildings you might see anywhere. Sometimes we were riding on rough-textured roads, at other times on smooth cycle paths beside the roads. The traffic was loud and the cycling was not particularly pleasant, as we inhaled fumes and hovered up particulates. The morning seemed to consist of more climbs than descents. And just to the north of Darlington is a lay-by that the locals seem to regard as an unofficial tip: mattresses, clothing, small white goods, sacks, etc and we had to slalom through bottles both plastic and glass.
Darlington was a blur of traffic lights, junctions and roundabouts – we were just glad to get through it and out into the country.
Walking our bikes across a really busy A-road junction, the traffic paused for us and a young man flashed his lights. We took that as an invitation to cross the road but, according to the young man, we deserved some gestures, a bit of language and then a roaring away causing his exhaust to backfire. Well, that showed us.
Having had enough of grimy, noisy urban riding, we stopped in Hurworth, where Malcolm decided to buy a vat of water – even after we filled up our bottles, we could have showered in the water left. Advice from a local directed us to The Mustard Tree cafe in a methodist church. Determined to use every last drop of his vat of water, Malcolm asked for a pint glass but was met with the reply ‘We’re a methodist church, we don’t tend to have a need for pint glasses here’.
The two people running the cafe were lovely. Unbidden, the man began telling us that we were on an old Roman road, the A167, and the woman (I didn’t get their names) asked about our charity ride. A moment later, she returned to us with a generous £10 donation.
Dousing ourselves in suncream, the afternoon immediately clouded over. It was far further into the afternoon than we had hoped and we were still a long way from York, so we had to get our heads down and ride hard for 30 miles.
Heading into the North Riding of Yorkshire, it was a delight to ride the quiet country roads and we made excellent time. This part of Yorkshire has a backdrop of far distant hills but parts of it are as flat as East Anglia. The 30 miles was hard riding but was fast, and soon we reached the attractive town of Boroughbridge, the place from which we would launch our final full frontal assault on York. A full frontal assault on York has never been tried before throughout history, I’m sure. Anyway, our Premier Inn lay on the outskirts of York, so the city remains unvanquished by us.
The last 20 miles, Malcolm and I were on quiet roads, so could often ride beside each other. Two teenage boys on the more robust or heftier side of the weight continuum, were clearly outraged that we dared cycle though their village and, like chunky guard dogs, briefly chased us on our bikes demanding a fight with a battle-cry of ‘I’m going to get you’. Malcolm and I just laughed at them, especially as the more aggressive one, only managed about fifty feet of running – the incident was hilarious to us, rather than intimidating. Above us two hot air balloons rose into the serene evening sky and then a microlight buzzed overhead. We waited for a train to pass at a crossing, which required a member of the railway staff to open the old-fashioned gates – I didn’t know these still existed.
The signpost said 11 miles to York but Malcolm said Komoot should take us down another road. The next signpost 12 miles to York! I told him that if the next signpost said 13 miles to York, murder was about to be done on these roads. Komoot was promising York but we could see nothing like a village, let alone a city! Komoot said we were less than 2 miles away; the signpost said 7 miles away. A mile down the road and the signpost said 4 miles away. When we were in Scotland for JogChi seven years ago, I remarked how whimsical the Scottish mileage system was and maybe they should just employ some random system of measurement, like badgers. Maybe this part of Yorkshire should adopt the same strategy: York – 700 lampshades away.
Komoot did us proud though and took us down country lanes until the last quarter-or-a-mile to our out of town hotel.
Waiting for us were family friends, who I just consider family, Trog (nickname) is like an aunt to me and Ben, a cousin or nephew. They helped round off a demanding, if uneventful, day in the best way with good conversation and some laughs.
A shorter day tomorrow but our legs are beginning to feel the accumulation of many days’ exertions. Tomorrow marks a week since we started this challenge but it already feels like months… We must be in Kazakhstan by now… I can only briefly recall sensation in my backside… I can barely remember what my family looks like!
Rogues of the Roman Roads 