Then There Were Two

The hottest day of the year, not a cloud in the sky, and sunburn already queuing up by mid-morning. I’d told everyone all week what a spectacularly bad idea it was to finish work, plan a five-month bike tour and manage a change of country all in the same few days. But the stresses were behind us now, and we rolled out at last after saying our goodbyes to parents, brothers and the friends who’d come to wave us off — Doug even got an impromptu slow clap going among the send-off crowd.

Lewy rode with us for the first fifteen miles or so, and we told him more than once that he should just keep going and forget about turning for home. We climbed Carlton Bank together, a mean lump of earth snaking up into the moors that I’d ridden before, unloaded, without much trouble; loaded like a tank it was a different and considerably more painful proposition, and it flattened all three of us.

View looking back halfway up Carlton Bank.

Fittingly, Lewy — nicknamed Chopper for his style on a football pitch — left us at Chop Gate. Three best friends splitting unevenly never feels quite fair, and we both wished he could have kept riding with us. He’d have to settle for a visit once we reached Australia.

We navigated the rest of a fifty-mile day past Malton and closed in on our campground for the evening. Unsurprisingly, Hill Top Farm sat at the summit of a nasty fourteen per cent climb. It was an odd sort of place, seemingly home to a number of eastern European workers living onsite. Five pounds bought us a patch of grass and nothing so grand as a shower — a basin wash and a packet of wet wipes did the job instead. We weren’t complaining.

The next day, riding toward the ferry terminal, our friend Chia had the day off and arranged to meet us on the edge of the town where he worked as a dental surgeon. He guided us into Beverley, a historic and handsome place neither Eal nor I had ever heard of or visited, somewhat to our surprise. It struck me as York before the stag parties arrived — I’m still fond of a good night out in York, but Beverley felt quieter and a shade more classy. Chia insisted on paying for lunch, then rode with us halfway to Hull, where the bike lanes deserve real credit: eight miles of dedicated path and clear signage, right up to the terminal doors.

Current dashboard, a little different to the Toyota.

Note: the sign is meant to read ‘East’.

Chia guides us into Beverley.

Chia’s plaque, a joke in there somewhere.

We were waved into the motorcycle area for boarding and drew plenty of interest from our motorised brethren, who wanted to compare spokes, chains and weight distribution before we joined them rolling onto the ferry — almost ceremonial, the two of us pedalling aboard in tandem with a line of engines idling around us. Once we’d found the parking deck, still loud with revving, Eal said, “It’s boiling in here.” I said, “Yeah, it’s ferry hot.” I repeated the joke a couple of times before accepting he wasn’t going to bite, and gave up gracefully. We found the room, showered, and watched England slide away into the dark with a few pints in hand as night came down over the water.

Getting on with these guys.

Home for the night.

England had been a good break-in ride, but nothing about it was new to us, and there’d been no surprises. I couldn’t wait to get to Belgium. This was where it would start to feel like the real beginning.