So with five days and 750km (or thereabouts) under our belts, it was time for a rest.
I’ll level with you, I needed it. I will never let Keith have the smug benefit of being able to tell me I should have trained more, so I enter every day with relentless positivity and peddle beyond my capability and then some……. in the last few days I’ve begun to feel like a childhood cuddly toy, still much loved, but worn beyond any practical use.
So we find ourselves parked up in a field in Skipton that is posing as a campsite, but is in fact a field with no facilities. I thought I would have a wonderful lie in, but being so knackered that I fell asleep at 9pm, my fabulous body clock woke me at 4am and then my cramping legs joined the “Don’t let Graham sleep” chorus.
But the sun has shone, Nigel has cooked us a barbecue and Keith’s Dad bought me one of the most sumptuous steaks I’ve ever eaten. Keith told me to hydrate, but instead I drank red wine a plenty. I shall suffer tomorrow, but today I am a King.
Another part of Keith’s plan to relentlessly torture me was to present me with a ‘foam roller’, a bobbly device used to crush your leg muscles in order to have a pseudo massage and prevent later injury – it was absurdly painful and I knocked it on the head, reasoning that anything hurting that much couldn’t conceivably prevent anything.
Keith’s mate (ohhhh, cycling friend) Seb has joined us this evening and will be riding with us for the next two days. I have genuine fear that Keith’s desire to be the best will cause him to give leave of his conscience and drive me into the ground in his pursuit to beat Seb. If this is my last post – Mum, it’s all Keith’s fault.