More miles, less words. That’s the mantra for Stage 3 of Le Tour de Norfolk.
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.
JESUS CHIRST FENTON! etc.
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.