Recycled ride to Kilham and Burton Agnes July 13th 2018

Present: Alan, Bodman, Chris S, Dave B, Geoff, George, Helen, Sheila, Steve

Distance: 51 miles

It’s Friday the 13th, we’ve had a heatwave for months, Trump’s in town and the world’s gone crazy.

Teresa’s a terrible PM, she didn’t listen to his advice. No, she’s not, she’s very wonderful, she’s

doing a wonderful job. She’s sabotaged our special relationship with the US. No, she hasn’t, we

have the most special sort of specialness. Trump’s a plastic pig flying over London in a nappy. No,

he’s not, he’s the most powerful leader in the world and he’s meeting the queen. Most outrageous

of all, Bodman’s just arrived on an electric bike, telling us this is the future. Do I ban him from

Recycled for being a disruptive maverick? Do I embrace him as a vanguard of the new world order?

It’s probably just a new toy, says Sheila, trying to console me. Come back, Dave, I can’t handle this!

We get to Cherry Burton. George has told me he’s not coming. Oh, he’s there after all. We pass

fields of flax at South Dalton. They’re beautiful. No, they’re not flax, they’re borage, someone says.

No, they’re linseed, claims another. Or comfrey. I give up and chat to George about the beauty of

the barley rippling in the breeze, and listen to the whitethroats and yellowhammers singing us on

our way. Enjoy it all while we can. Tempus fugit, says Alan. It’s a shame George and Alan are leaving

us at TJs. They’re quite a calming influence.

We get to TJs. I go over the map with the remaining six, carefully, as this is a new route and I don’t

want anyone getting lost. We’re turning right at the main road and then left, going to Driffield via

Skerne. No, we should go left at the main road, and then via Wansford says John, it’s quieter. But I

want to go a different route from the usual, I say. But it’s a better road, says John. It goes on. She’s

the leader, says Sheila, ending this round.

Oh no! Now Sheila and Dave are having a domestic. Sheila’s blaming Dave for smashing her phone

screen. He didn’t smash it, she did. She’d rung him up to ask how to dry it out after she’d got it wet.

He told her to take the back off. So, it was obviously his fault when she went at it with a large knife.

Please concede Dave, we’re all thinking, you can’t win. Phew, he’s given in!

Now we’re heading to Skerne and on via

the Bell Mills (deep chalk stream, trout,

water crowfoot) and the Riverhead at

Driffield (photo opportunity) and for once

no-one’s arguing and it can only get better.

Until Steve’s phone rings and he stops. He’ll catch us up, I say, and we carry on. I’ve conceded that

John can take us on a shortcut through Driffield to shut him up. We get to a turn off to the main

road at Nafferton. No Steve. We wait. I ring him up. Where are you? Lost without trace at a

roundabout on the dual carriageway, he tells me. We’ll head for the roundabout and meet you

there then. No Steve. I ring him again. Wrong roundabout. We wait some more. He turns up. It

was someone trying to sell him a flat in Tenerife. He already has a house in Tenerife which he’s

trying to sell. He’d tried to ring a few of us but had folded the group list so tightly in his wallet that it

was impossible to read the last two numbers of anyone’s phone number. Another maverick.

We carry on along Wold Road to Kilham. It gets steep, but we like the views. We can see the sea!

We ride through Kilham. I never knew that Kilham used to be bigger and more prosperous then

Driffield, before they built the Driffield Navigation which killed off Kilham. John tells us to look at the

weathervane on the church tower. It’s a turkey, a gift from Mr Twiddle the turkey farmer from

Driffield. He ran Twydale Turkeys. He must have thought Twiddle just didn’t sound posh enough I

suppose, so changed the vowel. You couldn’t make this up, this is not fake news. The madness is

piling up. John yells ‘Fiver!’ and crashes to a halt. Sure enough, a crisp fiver lies in the road before

John has it in his back pocket, and we are off again.

Oh no! Where’s John? Carried away with his electric enthusiasm? suggests Dave. Yes, he’s missed

the turn off to Burton Agnes. He who knows his way around this part of the world so well. Bad Boy

Bodman can sod off on his poncy electric bike, I’m thinking by now, hungry and tired enough to

abdicate my leadership role. We get to Burton Agnes. Still no John. I ring him up. No reply. Guilt is

gnawing when he finally turns up and it gnaws some more when he tells us he’d gone back to look

for us, thinking someone had a puncture. The gnawing stops as soon as the food arrives.

We’re off again, but not before I go over the map lest we have a third mishap. It’s the second

turning on the right after you cross the main road, everyone, please, don’t get lost again.

Oh no! Some of them have missed the turning! It’s Dave’s fault this time, carried away on his own

electrical enthusiasm. He’s followed his Garmin instead of my instructions. Another maverick. What

do I do? Sheila moves into the leadership vacuum. This is the right way, she says, I’m going this way,

so I do too. Geoff and Chris follow, having done a few circles in the road, trying to work out what on

earth’s going on.

We get to Kelk. The phone rings. It’s John. You went the first right, says John. No, I didn’t I went the

second right, I say. We stop arguing and agree to meet at Kelk. We wait at the pub for them. Then

we wait some more. I’ve got to get off, says Chris, I’m singing in North Ferriby tonight. Sheila rings

Dave. No reply. I ring John again. No reply. I think they’re ahead of us, says Sheila, so we set off.

Phew, just outside Kelk they catch us up.

By the time we get home we’ve done over 50 miles and we’re past arguing. I’m not bringing my

electric bike again, sulks John, it’s got me into trouble. I’m sulking too. I don’t want to be leader any

more. I feel as useless as a pig in a nappy or a turkey on a church tower.

Come back Dave!

HK