Tour de Norfolk 3

More miles, less words. That’s the mantra for Stage 3 of Le Tour de Norfolk.

Just think – if I hadn’t banged on about bloody gel bars during Stage 1 and Stage 2 then I could ridden all the way to Norwich by now.

Sometimes the written word is under valued, Comrades.

And so a sunny Sunday morning roll out for an ambitious stage. Fakeneham was the turnaround destination today for the Fakenger within.

But I was riding on empty.

ALL of the porridge supplies in ALL of Norfolk had been exhausted. My feet took some time to warm up as I struggled to find my rhythm along the hellish road to Holt.

Ah yes – that route.

Once again it was A road and B road bollocks, given that the Garmin mount had long since stopped performing the function under which it was named.

I wasn’t the lone lycra boy out eating up the road on Sunday morning though.

Blink and you’ll miss it but WOH! Was that really a maillot jaune with the livery of Team Sky plastered across the 44-inch waist?

Fine work, fella.

Do tell us where you found the porridge supply.

I didn’t get my oats and I hadn’t got time for Holt. Dying daffodils were a reminder of the changing season to come. I’m not sure what the dying roadside hedgehogs signified.

A road arseholes?

There were plenty.

I took a slight detour back towards the Norfolk lanes just ahead of the halfway turnaround. A couple of deers kept me company from the other side of a field during a toilet stop.


A couple of old dears (deary me, etc) almost got an eyeful of fluid redistribution as they passed along the lanes.


I took the tactical necessity of avoiding Norwich. There’s nothing to do there.


A second unscheduled toilet stop led to an unfortunate run of nettle stings. I’m a ‘confident young man’ – but not *that* confident. Only ankles were injured during this incident.

And then it was the home run along the North Norfolk coast and back to base.

180 miles in the saddle over three days. Happy with that.