Watching the clock

I’m on a bit of a deadline today. 41 miles might not sound like a lot, but I’ve got to do it all by lunchtime, in order to be in Bradford ready to perform early this afternoon. That rather relies on nothing going seriously astray.

I learnt my lesson about main roads the other day; they generally go in a straighter line, but they don’t really get me there any faster, and the noise and stress and danger just aren’t worth it.

So I’m weaving my way through York on the loveliest of narrow cycle lanes, with the traffic audible but elsewhere. The route goes more or less along the river, and it’s crowded with determined cyclists off to work. In places the paths aren’t quite wide enough for two to pass, and there are frequent right-angled turns, so there’s a lot of braking, and getting up to speed again.

But it’s all beautifully flat, so cruising speed is satisfyingly fast.

Then suddenly out into the country, still on untrafficked routes, serenaded by yellowhammers and skylarks. In nearly twenty miles the biggest hills I encounter are bridges over the railway. I stop to admire a couple of slow moving goods trains, one carrying some thousands of tons of steel, and the other pulling slightly sinister looking wagons labelled DRAX.

I consulted the clock and decided a brief coffee stop was in order. The Post Box Cafe in Thorner gives me a quarter of a biscuit with my latte.

And then, almost without warning, in the middle of Leeds. The city is beautifully and magnificently supplied with cycle tracks, so you can go right through the centre on multi-coloured protected routes. Bliss.

But maybe I shouldn’t have had that coffee. There are still traffic lights, and junctions, so the going is slower, and I’m half an hour later than I intended in Bradford.

I indulged in some practice in the cathedral, while Phil brought me a cup of tea, and then – really cutting it fine, I thought – I went in search of some lunch 40 minutes before I was due to perform.

Through the sparkling shopping centre, where I could have bought lovely Asian desserts, I found a catering van serving the most tempting of fare. It was run by Iraqi Kurds, who put their heart and soul into it.

I ate and walked at the same time, and arrived back under Bradford cathedral’s beautiful, but slightly fake, clock, five minutes before kick-off. Slightly fake? Yes, it’s just painted onto the tower; only the hands are real. But it tells the right time, and I need to get on stage without further prevarication.