Welcoming party

I was in the Bradley Wiggins camp on Friday. We'd lined up a long time ago that I was going to cycle to Doncaster via the Tour de Yorkshire route and Rich would come over in the evening with Little Dog and we'd all watch the race on Saturday with mum and dad. Rich would then cycle home on Sunday.

But it snowed!

Recently, Rich booked a big ride for next weekend so he offered me Sunday if the weather looked better. It was a little touch and go but in the end, started looking OK and warmer.

So, we headed over together on Friday with my bike and Little Dog in the back.

Rich and dad stood at the end of the drive to wave me off this morning although I do wonder if it was to ensure I headed in the proper direction! The problem with the route is the near-circle at the finish which meant either a 15 mile circuit or a tempting 7 mile shortcut. That was going to be my saviour on Friday if I'd set off from home and was running out of steam. Setting off from Doncaster, I had little excuse. But it was still appealing!

Anyway, the proper route I took. Seeing a weasel a mile or so up the road, heading past my A-Level stress sanctuary, the wooden fence at RAF Finningley (now a tall wire one for Doncaster airport), and remembering the road I first learnt to drive on, I'd soon forgotten about the shortcut. Arriving at the Cote de Conisborough a fair while later, I was in good spirits. A lovely old chap asked me if I was winning so I stopped to have a chat with him. He'd clearly been buzzing from watching the race the day before, telling me about the thousands of people on the hill, the community spirit and inviting the policemen in for sandwiches and tea. He told me I'd made his day and it had triggered some fine memories of his youth. He'd made my day too with his welcoming natter and lovely compliments.

And I was off again. At my happy plodding pace, giving me plenty of time to think how fast the cyclists were covering ground yesterday. It's really quite extraordinary the speeds they reach and maintain.

I was expecting rain at Pontefract and, sure enough, was spat at for the rest of the journey home. Luckily, I missed all of the heavy centres of the showers but I didn't fancy stopping and chilling off. So I kept my steady speed and headed on with a tailwind to help in many places.

Going through the villages was amazing; so much effort along the whole route and it definitely helped keep me going admiring the variety of colourful bunting and bikes. I again felt a little sad for the loss of coverage for all the hard work that would have looked so amazing on TV in Saturday's sunshine.

Seeing my first red kite was a great moment, knowing I was starting to get in the vicinity of home. Remembering I had a banana in my back pocket was a revelation when I got to East Keswick.

Feeling a little cross with myself for not having the guts to ask the Conisborough chap for a photo and spotting little I fancied taking a photo of on the way, I planned to take a photo of my bike at the entrance to Otley. But the dead daffodils put pay to that one!

I wondered if the maypole might still have some flags up. And, there was my second chance... It was actually in use! May Day!

My welcoming party for the end of my journey.

Meet Terry Ford, the bellman of Otley.

It was then a short run home. I took almost exactly twice as long as Kirsten Wild but it was thoroughly enjoyable and I've eaten for Yorkshire since getting home!