The Road into Nottingham

Whew. That went SO much better than the morning!

The sun was already beginning to sink down the western half of the sky when I got going, and everything was blue and gold. Flo spent much of the evening's journey in glitch mode, although she did come back out of it for five to ten minutes at a few points. But I got used to jumping off and resetting the battery whenever she fainted, and all was well. Encouragingly, it doesn't seem as though her condition is deteriorating at all - I was afraid the intervals between her fainting spells would start to get shorter and shorter, but that didn't happen.

The sun was close to setting when I reached the southern outskirts of Derby. A  crowd of some six or seven semi-pubescent boys on bikes gathered around me as I was updating you all on my progress, gawking at my combo of pastel cycle helmet, hi-viz jacket, wang shorts, Frozen leggings, and muddy hiking boots. I was busy tweeting and texting so I ignored them at first, and after a minute or so the biggest one (who was taller and broader than me) puffed himself up like a pigeon, stepped forward and asked me what the fuck was up with my outfit. I replied pleasantly that sheer awesomeness was up with my outfit, and asked him what the fuck was up with his face. His mates all laughed and jeered "Sick burn!" at him. He did angrily call me a cunt, but it didn't quite sting the way it might have if he hadn't been so red about the ears, and when I cycled off I began to pretty smug about myself - as soon as I'd satisfied myself they weren't following me, that is.

The Derby cycle routes were a sheer joy. My favourite part of the trip was sailing up the east side of the city on Cycle Route 6 by the light of the setting sun, belting out Ramblin Rover for the benefit of the pigeons and squirrels. Cycling north at the end of summer is a little like accelerating through time - autumn has already begun in Derby, and a few of the trees were solidly yellow. At the northeastern corner of Derby I turned onto the River Derwent cyclepath and began chasing my shadow towards Nottingham. The sun was setting, and midges and rabbits were everywhere.

In Breaston, which marked the end of stage five, I only stopped long enough to let folks know I was alright. Dusk had descended, my lights were on, and there were still more rural cyclepaths ahead before I reached Nottingham. I didn't want to do them in the dark if I could avoid it. So I pressed on, and reached the canal path that began at the southwestern edge of Nottingham as the last light was fading. It was broad, well-maintained and set aside from the water's edge by a narrow grass verge, so I judged it safe enough to traverse in the near-dark, and got through it without mishap. And then my instructions told me to turn right and cross the railway tracks, and to my right stood a great iron footbridge over the railway, with a steep double flight of steps and no ramp.

Reader, I cussed that bridge very loudly.

I had to remove Florence's bags and battery; she is so heavy with them I can barely lift her back end off the ground, let alone carry her up a flight of steps. By the time we were down the other side and reassembled, it was properly night time. Then came a short cycle through a forrested footpath, and a winding track up the side of a meadow that was thoroughly overgrown with stinging nettles. But then: road, blessed road; and city lights in the distance, and only another five and a half miles to go.

The roads were quiet, and I put googlemaps on in my pocket and let it tell me where to go, and fifteen minutes later we arrived at Gordon's house and there was soup and cheese and tea and I wasn't dead and everything was excellent.

It's a day off today, and then I'm striking out for Doncaster in the morning. Only another eighty miles to York, woopwoop!