I thought I had planned for all eventualities for this trip. Even down to the detail of cleaning the contacts on the cyclo computer, I hate it when you look down and it shows you are travelling at 0 mph. Anyhow,  I had booked my train tickets to Sheffield five days in advance, which is the furthest ahead that I can get weather data for, unless you count a Belgian site that goes 6 days ahead, but it's not very "betrouwbaar" that far in advance. I received 2 tickets for the bike, one for me to keep hold of and one that is attached to the bike. I guess the serial numbers have to match when you come to claim it at the end of the trip. Not a bad idea.

Anyway, my train was due out of Hull Paragon at 0848, so I was competing to get ready in the morning with my two teenage daughters. As I was packing my rucksack (book to read on train, minidiscs, flapjacks, chicken sandwich, maps, lock, puncture repair kit etc.) I realised that I would not be at home at 1600 when they returned from school, so I told one of them to take the house keys. As I continued to get ready the door clicked as the 14 year old left the house. Suddenly, I don't know why, I remembered that my bike was in the shed with a motorbike lock around it and the key was on the key ring heading out the front door. I dashed outside and caught her just in time and released my bike. That was close!

That scare over, I cruised to the station in the bus lane past all the static cars and got there with about 10 minutes to spare. Wheeling the bike to platform 6, I noticed that this train had no storage space at all. In a bit of a panic, I wheeled my bike up to the enquiries desk. The girl sitting behind the desk made no eye contact and all and was too busy asking the person at the other end of the line why she had not been paid double time for working last Sunday. It was now 3 minutes to go so I went back to the train.

 The driver was there now and asking where I could store my bike he just said "Anywhere you want, mate" . The only likely place was alongside a "pop up" cinema style 3 seater bench, but the bike was too long to fit, so it was off with both wheels. At least now I could keep an eye on it and lock it up. There was nowhere to fit the bungee cord, so I had to hope that the train would not sway about so much that the thing'd fall over and bang the woman on the bench opposite across her knees.

At exactly 0848, as shown on my radio controlled watch, we lurched out of the station. Luckily at the next stop someone put another bike on top of mine to add more stability. I spent the next ninety minutes engrossed in a book about Soviet era Short Wave jamming transmitters and arrived in good time at Sheffield. When I was assembling my bike, the guard asked if I was going cycling in the Peak District. I said no, that I was going to Hull. "But we've just come from there!" and then walked off muttering to himself.

 The attention to detail was such that I had even taken along a self addressed envelope and after putting my book inside, posted it back to myself to save dead weight. The long climb out of the city on the Sheffield Parkway was not too pleasant, so I took the first opportunity to get off at Catcliffe. After climbing a very steep hill into Ulley the drinks bottle was empty so I stopped at the first shop to look for a refill. All there was in the cooler cabinet were about a dozen different sorts of green, yellow, red and other garishly coloured sugary liquids. Picking Irn Bru as the best of a bad bunch I paid for it at the counter. The woman told me that there was 20p back on the glass bottle. I said I was biking to Hull and coming all the way back for 20p was a bit daft. However, after filling up the bottle and draughting off the rest down my throat it was empty anyway, so I took it back inside, but she had gone.

I was really bombing along now at speeds of up to 27 mph past the same picnic spot at Dinnington where last year I had been sitting, a forlorn figure after having been cycling for 9 hours all night. The contrast with now was vast; I wasn't bothered by long drags at all and attacked everything without fear. The big difference was confidence; because I had done it before, I knew what I was capable of, so the self doubt wasn't there. I could see also why people are obsessed with  cog sizes and ratios and stuff. I was maxing out at 27 mph, when if I had a higher gear, perhaps I could have done 30 mph for a while.

 Roadie alert! Coming towards me, slightly uphill was a guy on a racer. I crouched down, hanging onto the front brake levers and cranked it up at fast as I could. As I nonchalantly barrelled past at 28 mph, I bade him a cheery "Good Morning". Then, like a fat man at the beach holding his stomach in, I went back into relaxed mode once he'd gone. Well, it looked good anyway. By now I had the option of taking the shortest way home, or heading off into Nottinghamshire and since I was having such a blast, turned towards Retford. Once there, I saw that I had been travelling for two hours and should really take a break for something to eat. I didn't want to stop, but did anyway. I checked the mileage: 34 miles in two hours at 16 mph average. I might break my 14 mph barrier for the whole trip, if I kept this up. Sticky hands alert! The Irn Bru in the drinks bottle had leaked out and had coated the outside; one thing I hate is riding with sugary hands and handlebars, so I wrapped it in newspaper before picking it up.

There is an old clich� in soccer, that when a team is playing well, you do not want half time to come. Invariably, in the second half they play nowhere near as good. So it proved here. As, I pointed north towards Gainsborough, everything became sluggish and 15-16 mph was the norm. I wondered if the wind was against me and hoping for a backwind my spirits were raised when I
saw a garage forecourt with a flag pointing away from me. Looking closer, the damn thing had a wire through the top, like the flags on the moon. A couple of miles on someone's bonfire left a trail of smoke which was drifting towards me, the wind had indeed changed to north west. Oh well, 30 miles of grind ahead.

 My rear end was getting sore by now, so I kept standing on the pedals to get relief. All of a sudden there was a shooting pain up the outside of my right knee. Welcome back, I thought, haven't seen you for a while. I looked at the mileage, 64 miles. Hmm, why appear now all of a sudden? There were another 22 miles to go, I could still put power down OK, only it was far too painful to stand on , so I had to remember to use the left leg to relieve my sore bum.

 With the Humber Bridge within striking distance I had to walk up the hill to Elsham Wold; it's 300 ft climb in � mile was too much. The south side of the bridge was reached and I looked accusingly at Angus Windsock on his pole. He was hanging too limply to do justice to the stiff breeze in my face. I mean, what use is a windsock in a sheltered spot like that! God, where is the apex to this bridge? Well, I suppose it is the world's (2nd) longest.

Arriving home, I noted the miles, 86. I'll dump my rucksack and bang the odd 14 miles off. Noting that the kitchen was full of dirty pans and plates, I shouted to them to clear up their mess and set off. The knee was holding together and I felt in good nick crossing the river Hull into the eastern part of the city. Just then I came upon a choice, do I keep on the road, or use the parallel cycle track? I choose the track and after � mile came to a sickening halt. The front tyre was completely flat, it had a big piece of green glass in it. Ha ha, serves you right all you anti cycle facility people might say. Anyway, there I was, mileage stuck at 93.1, seven miles from home. After all that planning there was no puncture repair outfit or spare tube. They were in my discarded rucksack. The right knee was painful as I started off on the 2 hour trek back home. Hang on though; there's a petrol station nearby, maybe they'll sell puncture outfits. No such luck. The B+Q depot a little up the road had none either.

 Wait, why didn't I think of it before? There was a big Halfords a little further on. A set of tyre levers and inner tube later and we were off and running. I was surprised that I could still bomb down the road into town at 17 mph at this stage. Arriving back home, I cooked mashed potato, beef slices and broccoli while the sauna was heating up. Guzzling down a bottle of Timothy Taylor Landlord, I noted that my average time had been decimated by the walk to Halfords. For what it's worth it was 101.5 miles in 7 hrs 13 mins at 13.0 mph. Unfortunately the next day I had to be at work at 0600 with lots of vertical climbing of distillation columns in store, hope the knee holds out.


Linear Trip 2