Day Two: Amble to London by bike

Bishop Auckland to York on 9 July 2023

Breaking News (bad pun): I spoke to Ben last night and he’s broken his femur so is having an operation later today. He was in remarkably good spirits, which he attributes to the morphine. I wished him well and asked if he could send me some.

It’s a long gentle climb out of Bishop Auckland to Darlington. I’m taking it slowly because I’m tired, having been awake through the night trying to figure out the best route. I imagined I could save a few miles by cutting off a corner and avoiding Darlington but it would seem the A1M has already bagged that route. Anyway, the sun isn’t exactly shining but it’s not raining and the forecast is goodish. I get through Darlington easily and find the B6280 that will put me on the road to Northallerton, which I’m hoping will be my first stop of the day.

While we’re on the subject of B roads, whatever happened to them? When I was a lad, merry wayfarers wandered the Byways of Britain with a song in their hearts and a knapsack slung over their shoulders. The sun was always shining as they paused to quaff foaming pints of ale. They were greeted by friendly locals wherever they went, slept under hayricks and woke to gentle birdsong. They sauntered along these quiet roads, exchanging pleasantries with the occasional cyclist. This idyll is long gone and has been replaced by a seething mass of noise, fumes and frustration.

Oh no it’s an effin cyclist. He’s gonna hold me up. I’m already late. I got meetins, briefins, pitches. Gotta close that deal. Make that sale. Gotta pass him. Oh no…even worse…it’s some ancient effin cyclist with bags on the back. Can’t get past. No room. Maybe now. Quick - try it. No chance - he’s all over the effin road. What’s he doin? Where’s he goin? Who cares? Just get outta my way. I’m goin down a gear! I’m revvin and revvin but goin nowhere. Look at him. He just doesn’t care. I’m top of the range. I’m GTX. I’m air con; heated seats; AMG; I’m cruise control; I’m massive thrust. I got woofers, I got tweeters, I got classic rock beltin out in HD. I’m talkin torque. I’m talkin enough torque to do whatever torque does. I’m talkin horsepower. I can pull 100 chariots and I’m still stuck behind an ancient effin geezer on a bleedin bike! I’m breathin down his scrawny neck. I’m gonna pass him any minute now. WTFF!!!

Having survived the B (and A) roads of County Durham and North Yorkshire, I reach Thirsk. I do love a Greggs so when I see one in the market square I’m irresistibly drawn in its direction. It’s a deluxe one with a café, not just a takeaway, so I buy a vegan sausage roll with a cup of tea and sit down for a think. If I’m honest with myself, I’m feeling a bit knackered as I’ve done 40 miles on busy roads and there’s at least another 30 to do before York. It all looks a bit formidable but the sun’s out and, to be fair, I’ve got nothing else to do. I ring Eil for a chat and pretend to be in better spirits than I am but she can see through me. However, talking to her cheers me up and I’m ready for the final leg.

Just south of Thirsk, there’s a designated cycle route all the way to York on NCN Route 65 (no kicks here). I join the route at Easingwold and eventually wend my way through the grounds of Beningbrough Hall until I find the cycle track along the banks of the River Ouse, right into the centre of York and to my nephew’s house where I’m staying tonight.

I increase my speed as much as possible in the hope of outriding a storm of almost biblical proportions heading my way. As though painted by John Martin, it contains wind, ominously black clouds, rain, thunder and lightning. I ride like mad along the banks of the Ouse, feeling the storm breathing down my neck like an avenging devil. Numerous cattle grids cross the track, wide and deep enough to stop your average mastodon let alone a domestic cow. I zoom across a grid, which causes a worrying rattle to emerge from my front wheel. I can’t decide if it’s a broken spoke (spokes are on my mind) or just dislodged items in the handlebar bag. Turns out to be the latter.

About 10 minutes from York, the storm arrives in full regalia and I decide to carry on rather than shelter. It’s a good test of my new waterproof jacket and I arrive a bit soaked at my nephew’s house, where I’m warmly welcomed.

If you look closely you might be able to see a lone cyclist on his way to York

Soundtrack: Riders on the Storm by The Doors. It’s a suitably gothic sound, featuring Jim Morrison’s final recording (a whispered overdub), Heidegger (‘into this world we’re thrown’), a serial killer, rain, romantic love, and an interesting preposition. They’re riders on the storm rather than of or in, which suggests a mastery over the elements that I certainly don’t have. I’m definitely riding in this storm so let’s see where it takes me next.