We woke up and had breakfast earlier than usual as we had to walk into town to buy some of those delicious powder drinks (they are not delicious) to power us through the penultimate day. We also bought some spare inner tubes after I had used one the previous day and headed back to the pub to pick up our bikes. The paint I had inadvertently knocked over the previous evening had dried nicely on the concrete floor but I’m still waiting for my thank-you from the hotel for my free bit of painting and decorating I did for them.
The forecast for the day wasn’t great but we were beginning to distrust them as by now we should have been drenched but were continuing to ride our luck. Out of Ripon we had over 50 miles of cycling to reach Pocklington so we got going.
This was the flattest day of the trip which you would think would make it easier but in some ways it isn’t. The variation in ride position when ascending and descending hills means it’s more comfortable when the terrain is not flat over long distances. Flat rides also mean a constant need for pedalling which saps the energy further.
About halfway through the ride we reached the outskirts of York where we joined an off-road path to head into the city. After a few days away from a town of any size, cycling into York was a bit of a shock to the system. A severe lack of Way of the Roses signs when we reached the historic heart of the city meant we thought the route name was actually Which Way of the Roses. We took a wrong turn and ended up carrying our bikes across the river twice (easy for me, not so easy for John with his bike and the attached panniers).
We popped into a nearby pub once we had regained our bearings, John insisting to the bar manager that we would buy drinks once we had, erm, relieved ourselves. We didn’t and the guy is probably still waiting for us to order drinks. To be honest, as lovely as York looks we just wanted to get the fuck out as soon as possible and back on the village roads away from busy intersections, impatient drivers and large buses. Again the signs were making it a struggle to leave though and John thought we could have made a movie about it, dubbing it Escape from York. Just like the 80s blockbuster with Snake Plissken but with more drizzle and less eyepatches.
After finally making it out we headed back out of civilisation and back into the stunning Yorkshire countryside. Our luck with the weather was still holding; at one point we were cycling down a tiny country lane with dark clouds on either side of us with a small strip of blue sky directly above us.
We decided against stopping for lunch and just aim to arrive in Pocklington as soon as we could. Our ‘lunch’ actually consisted of two Mars Bars each washed down with that wonderful powder energy drink. My drink today was rumoured to be blackcurrant flavour but tasted more like a cross between melted plastic and feet. Still, it helped.
The pub we were staying at was in the heart of the pretty market town of Pocklington. After locking our bikes up in a shed at the back (I didn’t do any painting and decorating this time) we ascended up into our room, conveniently located at the top of the pub on the third floor. I was beginning to wonder if John was booking these sky rooms on purpose as my body creaked up the stairs. The room was also apparently designed for hobbits with a ‘Mind your head’ sign above the 5ft door frame. After dropping my bag on my bed I went over to the window and immediately broke the curtain rail. Not on purpose you understand, I just have that sort of touch. I thought I would relax with a nice hot shower but couldn’t work out how to turn the bastard thing on. It turned out I just needed three seconds of patience as that is how long the water takes to come through after turning the tap. Curiously enough three seconds was the same amount of time I had in the shower before it began to start flooding. It was a lovely relaxing end to a hard days ride.
After changing and having something to eat in the pub we had a couple of drinks before heading out to see what was on in Pocklington. It turns out that ‘fuck all’ is the answer so we retreated back to the pub, colder, and had a few more pints. We even had a go at the quiz, finishing bottom but being the smallest team by about 8 people I thought we did okay. If we had of won some of them looked like they might have chased us out of town with pitchforks so perhaps it was for the best.
Placename of the day: Fangfoss. It sounds like the place had a competition where the three year olds from the village got to name the town. Fangfoss won, beating out Bumboom and Wahwah.
Daniel McChrystal 