Withernsea to Flintham

The weather has been kind. Touring is much more straightforward without the unwelcome involvement of pissing rain or a slapping headwind. Fortunately Thursday’s 91 miles involved neither of those things. Now that I’ve mentioned the “91”ness of the ride, i feel like i need to immediately drag this 100 mile imperial elephant into the room and kill it. I knew it was going to be a 90 mile ride. If I’d gone through the Wolds via Market Rasen, it would have been 107 miles. And i would have been a messy, leaking heap on the floor. I had no desire to pop that 100 mile marker, especially with two more big days to follow.

It did involve some lovely scenic stuff. The Humber bridge is an utter corker, curving upwards in a tensile arc like a longbow. Lincoln is beautiful and very medieval. It’s the closest I’ve seen to a French city like Dijon. I imagine it escaped wholescale bombing in the war. The joyous bit is at the top of Steep Hill (that is what it is called, on account of it being really steep). I think it’s used in the Lincoln GP. I have a new found respect for the riders.

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For most of the day i was tapping along, flatter is easier. Lincolnshire is flat. Essentially, it’s flat flat flat. And straight, often on account of the Roman road and parallel road. It’s also deserted because all the traffic seems to pour over the Humber Bridge and down the main road, leaving everything else empty. The landscape is punctuated by current and mothballed RAF bases, and more than a few deserted medieval villages. (They’re more just tumps then ghost towns).

The hunger took hold at Lincoln when i rode past the walker’s crisps factory. It smelt good. I ate a banana, then stocked up on Newark for my evening meal. It was a king’s banquet of packet macaroni cheese and packet egg fried rice, with a bag of wasabi peas and two malteser bunnies. And three bottles of choice ale. I caned the lot. Just reward for a 91 mile touring schlep.

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Grand depart
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