It never fails to amaze me how many times little things happen in everyday life stay with you forever. Everyday is a school day and all that. Yes, one might learn something new, but there is always everything else as well, there will always be an event, someone or something that will come across your path, the entire spectrum from the sublime to the ridiculous, even in a single 100km bike ride. Got your coffee, then I will begin.

<Robert outside the Swan Inn at the start of his 100km charity bike ride>
Despite the incredible donations that have come our way already, £1,320 at the time of writing, I often wondered if Tandem Pilot Michael Jay and I were on our own.

Remember, we were raising funds for three worthy causes. 60% of what we collected would go to the Norfolk Churches Trust (NCT), currently standing at £792, half of which would be allocated to St Andrew’s Church Little Massingham, and 40%, £528, to Vision Norfolk.

The day before the big day and, indeed, on the morning itself, the good wishes poured in. Many people got in contact to offer us the best of luck.

It was nice to hear from the hierarchy of the NCT and St Andrew’s Church in Little Massingham. Amazing how such busy people can take time out of their days to drop me an email or pick up the phone. It proves they are simply not all take, and that they do care about the efforts Michael and I were making on their behalf.

Whilst talking of donations, as I was, the Give Wheel page will remain open for 90 days from the completion of the challenge. Please see the details below and take a wander across there and give what you can.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I am really, really grateful for every single penny that comes our way. Why oh why, though, do some of you insist on remaining anonymous? Of course, and I totally get it, it is your prerogative, but what you do is allow people less charitable than yourselves to claim that they did donate.

I am, frankly, staggered how many say they have given without providing their name, compared to those that actually did remain nameless. It appears that the ratio is somewhere around 2:1, and that, I am afraid to say, could well be underestimated. Never mind, it’s the thought that counts, isn’t it, these people are only kidding themselves. You know who you are.

Hope you don’t mind me offering up a suggestion, perhaps the real contributors might use pseudonyms in future. It would stop the cheats from making spurious claims when they would have no idea if the identities are for real or not. After all, it is your bandwagon and there is nothing worse than others, undeserving of a place, weighing it down.

I would not have been able to complete this ride without the input of tandem pilot extraordinaire, Michael Jay, who has nurtured me along the way. I had not ridden, meaningfully at any rate, in over fifty years when I answered a call from Vision Norfolk seeking blind and visually impaired riders to take part in tandem rides.

A great bunch of people at West Norfolk CTC (Cyclist's Touring Club) took us out, giving up their valuable time so that our community can enjoy new experiences outside our everyday comfort zone.

I think it safe to say that we all had different levels of experience. I was, without any doubt, the novice of the group at the outset, others had been riding for, in some cases, years. I had to dig really deep not to be found out and let the rest of the group down.

As well as Michael, there are two other amazing tandem pilots whom I have ridden with. First of all, there is retired doctor, Colin Elston, and last, but by no means least, is retired engineer, Colin Plaskett.

Just maybe the next pilots are reading this right now and would like to become guides. I think, probably, in the first instance it might be worth contacting Cycling UK.

If you reside in other lands, which I know some of you do, I am sure you will all have national cycling organisations who can point you in the right direction.

The pilots who have taken me out thus far are all united in being so enthusiastic about what they do. I know that all of the VI community who partake in this are inordinately grateful for their valuable time. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Please give it a go, the pilots all tell me that it is very rewarding.

<Robert and tandem pilot Michael outside The Church in the Woottons, North Wootton>
I think we left The Swan, it wasn’t open, pretty much on time at 08:45. A word of thanks, before I forget altogether, for our back-up driver, photographer, social media manager and, be careful Robert, general dogsbody, my wife, Jane, who went ahead of us and prepared the way for our arrival into the various destinations.

It was slightly disappointing to find that the first 13 churches were closed, indeed, it seemed like there was more life in the graveyards than the churches, even the bats were fast asleep.

I think it only fair to fess up here, we probably arrived too early at the first few, so I shall excuse South Wootton, The Minster in KL, West Lynn, Clenchwarton, Terrington St Clement and Tilney All Saints.

What about the rest of you? Seven of you couldn’t even be bothered to show up to greet all of us cyclists, runners, walkers and classic car drivers who were making the effort to help your building survive. If it were down to me which, fortunately for you it is not, you wouldn’t be receiving a single penny of our hard earned and hard-fought cash.

Luckily the people at the NCT are, altogether, a jolly nice bunch and, I am sure, won’t discriminate when it comes to doling out grants.

As we got into the Fens proper, the wind was blowing and a thin spit of rain had started, just enough to make us, if not absolutely wet through, just slightly slimy.

The last thing you want in the Terringtons and Tilneys is to slip a chain. That is exactly what happened. Whilst Michael saw to the running repair I stood lookout against speeding cars, trying to make myself as conspicuous as possible in my hi-vis.

As my mind started to work overtime, I recalled a conversation with a friend from Shropshire, who had once worked in the Fens. He had warned me about the bog-monsters who lurked in this unforgiving land, residing in roadside ditches waiting to emerge and catch unsuspecting travellers, including cyclists, and devouring them whole.

I could hear skittering in the undergrowth, I could smell pungent fumes, was it bog-monster body odour, and I was covered in slime which I had, hitherto, taken as a spitting precipitation.

Cars passed by, not showing the slightest inclination to see if we were alright. We were soon on our way, leaving the bog-monsters and my imagination standing by the roadside.

When we rocked up at Wiggenhall St Mary Magdalen, to give it its full name, the locals have shortened it to just Magdalen, and who can blame them, we were excited to realise that, at long last, we had come across a manned church.

Inside we discovered a church warden, surprised to see us, that didn’t bode well, she didn’t even know about the bike ride, she was awaiting a delivery of kitchen units from Wickes. I have no idea if they turned up or not and, to be honest, I am not really sure that I care. I know that that doesn’t make me a good human being.

Once past Downham Market, even that was closed to visitors, things seemed to improve. The tiny village of Denver, like its Coloradan namesake in the Rockies, is high up in the Norfolk Alps. Not only did the scenery appear more appealing from my periphery vision, but trees offered shelter from the gusting wind.

The sun started to shine, and all seemed good with the world. Even though we were climbing some of the steepest, torturous hills that Norfolk has to offer, we were beginning to make better headway.

At times in the Fens, we had barely progressed at anything much more than a brisk walk. Here was different, though, we would sometimes be cracking along in the mid-teens, in terms of mph, quite often achieving speeds in excess of 20. Truly amazing, the end didn’t seem so far away.

Some of the roads out in the low-lying environs of the Fens hardly rated the description, some were so pocked with damage, they resembled a warzone.

Arriving in the uplands did not improve matters, especially the riband of damaged tarmac between Ryston and West Dereham. Do you know, some people spend good money to go to places like Alton Towers, £68 on the gate when I checked, for their thrills.

Well, I can tell you now, if you already own a bike, you can take yourself along to the Ryston Road and enjoy as much fun for nothing, free, gratis, whatever. It certainly has as much jeopardy involved. It is not really potholes, although some feel like abandoned mine workings, but tree roots hiding just under the road like arboreal landmines.

We hit one of these hazards so hard, at a tad over 20mph, that it ejected me from my seat, my backside and feet disconnected from the cycling machine before I came back down with a resounding crack. Ouch! Talk about test the testicles.

Not sure about you or is it only me. How is it when a job is given to highway engineers, they always seem to make matters worse. Recently, in our village they introduced a series of road closures which led to the inevitable diversions.

Some poor souls only needed to travel 20 metres or so to the next junction, but thanks to highway engineers they were faced with a diversion of six miles or more on roads ill-equipped to deal with such traffic. Then, give them the task of relieving snarled up lines of cars in a tourist hotspot, and they will do the job by spreading the problem over a wider area.

What about resurfacing of roads? Can someone explain why they will come and redress a potholed and damaged road and then, a week or two later, return to repair the potholes. It makes no sense.

I daresay if anyone can be bothered to seek an explanation, we will be informed the cash comes from different budgets. How much money could be saved by simply doing things in the right order, joining up the thinking.

Apologies for my long-winded diversion. Now for my solution, it is very simple. I propose that highways chiefs should be forced to ride bicycles at over 20 miles per hour, along country lanes, when working out their schedules for repair. They may well encounter bouncing balls lost by their owners, but they will, most certainly, gain a different perspective, and we will end up with the best roads in the world.I think we left The Swan, it wasn’t open, pretty much on time at 08:45. A word of thanks, before I forget altogether, for our back-up driver, photographer, social media manager and, be careful Robert, general dogsbody, my wife, Jane, who went ahead of us and prepared the way for our arrival into the various destinations.

It was slightly disappointing to find that the first 13 churches were closed, indeed, it seemed like there was more life in the graveyards than the churches, even the bats were fast asleep.

I think it only fair to fess up here, we probably arrived too early at the first few, so I shall excuse South Wootton, The Minster in KL, West Lynn, Clenchwarton, Terrington St Clement and Tilney All Saints.

What about the rest of you? Seven of you couldn’t even be bothered to show up to greet all of us cyclists, runners, walkers and classic car drivers who were making the effort to help your building survive. If it were down to me which, fortunately for you it is not, you wouldn’t be receiving a single penny of our hard earned and hard-fought cash.

Luckily the people at the NCT are, altogether, a jolly nice bunch and, I am sure, won’t discriminate when it comes to doling out grants.

As we got into the Fens proper, the wind was blowing and a thin spit of rain had started, just enough to make us, if not absolutely wet through, just slightly slimy.

The last thing you want in the Terringtons and Tilneys is to slip a chain. That is exactly what happened. Whilst Michael saw to the running repair I stood lookout against speeding cars, trying to make myself as conspicuous as possible in my hi-vis.

As my mind started to work overtime, I recalled a conversation with a friend from Shropshire, who had once worked in the Fens. He had warned me about the bog-monsters who lurked in this unforgiving land, residing in roadside ditches waiting to emerge and catch unsuspecting travellers, including cyclists, and devouring them whole.

I could hear skittering in the undergrowth, I could smell pungent fumes, was it bog-monster body odour, and I was covered in slime which I had, hitherto, taken as a spitting precipitation.

Cars passed by, not showing the slightest inclination to see if we were alright. We were soon on our way, leaving the bog-monsters and my imagination standing by the roadside.

When we rocked up at Wiggenhall St Mary Magdalen, to give it its full name, the locals have shortened it to just Magdalen, and who can blame them, we were excited to realise that, at long last, we had come across a manned church.

Inside we discovered a church warden, surprised to see us, that didn’t bode well, she didn’t even know about the bike ride, she was awaiting a delivery of kitchen units from Wickes. I have no idea if they turned up or not and, to be honest, I am not really sure that I care. I know that that doesn’t make me a good human being.

Once past Downham Market, even that was closed to visitors, things seemed to improve. The tiny village of Denver, like its Coloradan namesake in the Rockies, is high up in the Norfolk Alps. Not only did the scenery appear more appealing from my periphery vision, but trees offered shelter from the gusting wind.

The sun started to shine, and all seemed good with the world. Even though we were climbing some of the steepest, torturous hills that Norfolk has to offer, we were beginning to make better headway.

At times in the Fens, we had barely progressed at anything much more than a brisk walk. Here was different, though, we would sometimes be cracking along in the mid-teens, in terms of mph, quite often achieving speeds in excess of 20. Truly amazing, the end didn’t seem so far away.

Some of the roads out in the low-lying environs of the Fens hardly rated the description, some were so pocked with damage, they resembled a warzone.

Arriving in the uplands did not improve matters, especially the riband of damaged tarmac between Ryston and West Dereham. Do you know, some people spend good money to go to places like Alton Towers, £68 on the gate when I checked, for their thrills.

Well, I can tell you now, if you already own a bike, you can take yourself along to the Ryston Road and enjoy as much fun for nothing, free, gratis, whatever. It certainly has as much jeopardy involved. It is not really potholes, although some feel like abandoned mine workings, but tree roots hiding just under the road like arboreal landmines.

We hit one of these hazards so hard, at a tad over 20mph, that it ejected me from my seat, my backside and feet disconnected from the cycling machine before I came back down with a resounding crack. Ouch! Talk about test the testicles.

Not sure about you or is it only me. How is it when a job is given to highway engineers, they always seem to make matters worse. Recently, in our village they introduced a series of road closures which led to the inevitable diversions.

Some poor souls only needed to travel 20 metres or so to the next junction, but thanks to highway engineers they were faced with a diversion of six miles or more on roads ill-equipped to deal with such traffic. Then, give them the task of relieving snarled up lines of cars in a tourist hotspot, and they will do the job by spreading the problem over a wider area.

What about resurfacing of roads? Can someone explain why they will come and redress a potholed and damaged road and then, a week or two later, return to repair the potholes. It makes no sense.

I daresay if anyone can be bothered to seek an explanation, we will be informed the cash comes from different budgets. How much money could be saved by simply doing things in the right order, joining up the thinking.

Apologies for my long-winded diversion. Now for my solution, it is very simple. I propose that highways chiefs should be forced to ride bicycles at over 20 miles per hour, along country lanes, when working out their schedules for repair. They may well encounter bouncing balls lost by their owners, but they will, most certainly, gain a different perspective, and we will end up with the best roads in the world.I think we left The Swan, it wasn’t open, pretty much on time at 08:45. A word of thanks, before I forget altogether, for our back-up driver, photographer, social media manager and, be careful Robert, general dogsbody, my wife, Jane, who went ahead of us and prepared the way for our arrival into the various destinations.

It was slightly disappointing to find that the first 13 churches were closed, indeed, it seemed like there was more life in the graveyards than the churches, even the bats were fast asleep.

I think it only fair to fess up here, we probably arrived too early at the first few, so I shall excuse South Wootton, The Minster in KL, West Lynn, Clenchwarton, Terrington St Clement and Tilney All Saints.

What about the rest of you? Seven of you couldn’t even be bothered to show up to greet all of us cyclists, runners, walkers and classic car drivers who were making the effort to help your building survive. If it were down to me which, fortunately for you it is not, you wouldn’t be receiving a single penny of our hard earned and hard-fought cash.

Luckily the people at the NCT are, altogether, a jolly nice bunch and, I am sure, won’t discriminate when it comes to doling out grants.

As we got into the Fens proper, the wind was blowing and a thin spit of rain had started, just enough to make us, if not absolutely wet through, just slightly slimy.

The last thing you want in the Terringtons and Tilneys is to slip a chain. That is exactly what happened. Whilst Michael saw to the running repair I stood lookout against speeding cars, trying to make myself as conspicuous as possible in my hi-vis.

As my mind started to work overtime, I recalled a conversation with a friend from Shropshire, who had once worked in the Fens. He had warned me about the bog-monsters who lurked in this unforgiving land, residing in roadside ditches waiting to emerge and catch unsuspecting travellers, including cyclists, and devouring them whole.

I could hear skittering in the undergrowth, I could smell pungent fumes, was it bog-monster body odour, and I was covered in slime which I had, hitherto, taken as a spitting precipitation.

Cars passed by, not showing the slightest inclination to see if we were alright. We were soon on our way, leaving the bog-monsters and my imagination standing by the roadside.

When we rocked up at Wiggenhall St Mary Magdalen, to give it its full name, the locals have shortened it to just Magdalen, and who can blame them, we were excited to realise that, at long last, we had come across a manned church.

Inside we discovered a church warden, surprised to see us, that didn’t bode well, she didn’t even know about the bike ride, she was awaiting a delivery of kitchen units from Wickes. I have no idea if they turned up or not and, to be honest, I am not really sure that I care. I know that that doesn’t make me a good human being.

Once past Downham Market, even that was closed to visitors, things seemed to improve. The tiny village of Denver, like its Coloradan namesake in the Rockies, is high up in the Norfolk Alps. Not only did the scenery appear more appealing from my periphery vision, but trees offered shelter from the gusting wind.

The sun started to shine, and all seemed good with the world. Even though we were climbing some of the steepest, torturous hills that Norfolk has to offer, we were beginning to make better headway.

At times in the Fens, we had barely progressed at anything much more than a brisk walk. Here was different, though, we would sometimes be cracking along in the mid-teens, in terms of mph, quite often achieving speeds in excess of 20. Truly amazing, the end didn’t seem so far away.

Some of the roads out in the low-lying environs of the Fens hardly rated the description, some were so pocked with damage, they resembled a warzone.

Arriving in the uplands did not improve matters, especially the riband of damaged tarmac between Ryston and West Dereham. Do you know, some people spend good money to go to places like Alton Towers, £68 on the gate when I checked, for their thrills.

Well, I can tell you now, if you already own a bike, you can take yourself along to the Ryston Road and enjoy as much fun for nothing, free, gratis, whatever. It certainly has as much jeopardy involved. It is not really potholes, although some feel like abandoned mine workings, but tree roots hiding just under the road like arboreal landmines.

We hit one of these hazards so hard, at a tad over 20mph, that it ejected me from my seat, my backside and feet disconnected from the cycling machine before I came back down with a resounding crack. Ouch! Talk about test the testicles.

Not sure about you or is it only me. How is it when a job is given to highway engineers, they always seem to make matters worse. Recently, in our village they introduced a series of road closures which led to the inevitable diversions.

Some poor souls only needed to travel 20 metres or so to the next junction, but thanks to highway engineers they were faced with a diversion of six miles or more on roads ill-equipped to deal with such traffic. Then, give them the task of relieving snarled up lines of cars in a tourist hotspot, and they will do the job by spreading the problem over a wider area.

What about resurfacing of roads? Can someone explain why they will come and redress a potholed and damaged road and then, a week or two later, return to repair the potholes. It makes no sense.

I daresay if anyone can be bothered to seek an explanation, we will be informed the cash comes from different budgets. How much money could be saved by simply doing things in the right order, joining up the thinking.

Apologies for my long-winded diversion. Now for my solution, it is very simple. I propose that highways chiefs should be forced to ride bicycles at over 20 miles per hour, along country lanes, when working out their schedules for repair. They may well encounter bouncing balls lost by their owners, but they will, most certainly, gain a different perspective, and we will end up with the best roads in the world.I think we left The Swan, it wasn’t open, pretty much on time at 08:45. A word of thanks, before I forget altogether, for our back-up driver, photographer, social media manager and, be careful Robert, general dogsbody, my wife, Jane, who went ahead of us and prepared the way for our arrival into the various destinations.

It was slightly disappointing to find that the first 13 churches were closed, indeed, it seemed like there was more life in the graveyards than the churches, even the bats were fast asleep.

I think it only fair to fess up here, we probably arrived too early at the first few, so I shall excuse South Wootton, The Minster in KL, West Lynn, Clenchwarton, Terrington St Clement and Tilney All Saints.

What about the rest of you? Seven of you couldn’t even be bothered to show up to greet all of us cyclists, runners, walkers and classic car drivers who were making the effort to help your building survive. If it were down to me which, fortunately for you it is not, you wouldn’t be receiving a single penny of our hard earned and hard-fought cash.

Luckily the people at the NCT are, altogether, a jolly nice bunch and, I am sure, won’t discriminate when it comes to doling out grants.

As we got into the Fens proper, the wind was blowing and a thin spit of rain had started, just enough to make us, if not absolutely wet through, just slightly slimy.

The last thing you want in the Terringtons and Tilneys is to slip a chain. That is exactly what happened. Whilst Michael saw to the running repair I stood lookout against speeding cars, trying to make myself as conspicuous as possible in my hi-vis.

As my mind started to work overtime, I recalled a conversation with a friend from Shropshire, who had once worked in the Fens. He had warned me about the bog-monsters who lurked in this unforgiving land, residing in roadside ditches waiting to emerge and catch unsuspecting travellers, including cyclists, and devouring them whole.

I could hear skittering in the undergrowth, I could smell pungent fumes, was it bog-monster body odour, and I was covered in slime which I had, hitherto, taken as a spitting precipitation.

Cars passed by, not showing the slightest inclination to see if we were alright. We were soon on our way, leaving the bog-monsters and my imagination standing by the roadside.

When we rocked up at Wiggenhall St Mary Magdalen, to give it its full name, the locals have shortened it to just Magdalen, and who can blame them, we were excited to realise that, at long last, we had come across a manned church.

Inside we discovered a church warden, surprised to see us, that didn’t bode well, she didn’t even know about the bike ride, she was awaiting a delivery of kitchen units from Wickes. I have no idea if they turned up or not and, to be honest, I am not really sure that I care. I know that that doesn’t make me a good human being.

Once past Downham Market, even that was closed to visitors, things seemed to improve. The tiny village of Denver, like its Coloradan namesake in the Rockies, is high up in the Norfolk Alps. Not only did the scenery appear more appealing from my periphery vision, but trees offered shelter from the gusting wind.

The sun started to shine, and all seemed good with the world. Even though we were climbing some of the steepest, torturous hills that Norfolk has to offer, we were beginning to make better headway.

At times in the Fens, we had barely progressed at anything much more than a brisk walk. Here was different, though, we would sometimes be cracking along in the mid-teens, in terms of mph, quite often achieving speeds in excess of 20. Truly amazing, the end didn’t seem so far away.

Some of the roads out in the low-lying environs of the Fens hardly rated the description, some were so pocked with damage, they resembled a warzone.

Arriving in the uplands did not improve matters, especially the riband of damaged tarmac between Ryston and West Dereham. Do you know, some people spend good money to go to places like Alton Towers, £68 on the gate when I checked, for their thrills.

Well, I can tell you now, if you already own a bike, you can take yourself along to the Ryston Road and enjoy as much fun for nothing, free, gratis, whatever. It certainly has as much jeopardy involved. It is not really potholes, although some feel like abandoned mine workings, but tree roots hiding just under the road like arboreal landmines.

We hit one of these hazards so hard, at a tad over 20mph, that it ejected me from my seat, my backside and feet disconnected from the cycling machine before I came back down with a resounding crack. Ouch! Talk about test the testicles.

Not sure about you or is it only me. How is it when a job is given to highway engineers, they always seem to make matters worse. Recently, in our village they introduced a series of road closures which led to the inevitable diversions.

Some poor souls only needed to travel 20 metres or so to the next junction, but thanks to highway engineers they were faced with a diversion of six miles or more on roads ill-equipped to deal with such traffic. Then, give them the task of relieving snarled up lines of cars in a tourist hotspot, and they will do the job by spreading the problem over a wider area.

What about resurfacing of roads? Can someone explain why they will come and redress a potholed and damaged road and then, a week or two later, return to repair the potholes. It makes no sense.

I daresay if anyone can be bothered to seek an explanation, we will be informed the cash comes from different budgets. How much money could be saved by simply doing things in the right order, joining up the thinking.

Apologies for my long-winded diversion. Now for my solution, it is very simple. I propose that highways chiefs should be forced to ride bicycles at over 20 miles per hour, along country lanes, when working out their schedules for repair. They may well encounter bouncing balls lost by their owners, but they will, most certainly, gain a different perspective, and we will end up with the best roads in the world.I think we left The Swan, it wasn’t open, pretty much on time at 08:45. A word of thanks, before I forget altogether, for our back-up driver, photographer, social media manager and, be careful Robert, general dogsbody, my wife, Jane, who went ahead of us and prepared the way for our arrival into the various destinations.

It was slightly disappointing to find that the first 13 churches were closed, indeed, it seemed like there was more life in the graveyards than the churches, even the bats were fast asleep.

I think it only fair to fess up here, we probably arrived too early at the first few, so I shall excuse South Wootton, The Minster in KL, West Lynn, Clenchwarton, Terrington St Clement and Tilney All Saints.

What about the rest of you? Seven of you couldn’t even be bothered to show up to greet all of us cyclists, runners, walkers and classic car drivers who were making the effort to help your building survive. If it were down to me which, fortunately for you it is not, you wouldn’t be receiving a single penny of our hard earned and hard-fought cash.

Luckily the people at the NCT are, altogether, a jolly nice bunch and, I am sure, won’t discriminate when it comes to doling out grants.

As we got into the Fens proper, the wind was blowing and a thin spit of rain had started, just enough to make us, if not absolutely wet through, just slightly slimy.

The last thing you want in the Terringtons and Tilneys is to slip a chain. That is exactly what happened. Whilst Michael saw to the running repair I stood lookout against speeding cars, trying to make myself as conspicuous as possible in my hi-vis.

As my mind started to work overtime, I recalled a conversation with a friend from Shropshire, who had once worked in the Fens. He had warned me about the bog-monsters who lurked in this unforgiving land, residing in roadside ditches waiting to emerge and catch unsuspecting travellers, including cyclists, and devouring them whole.

I could hear skittering in the undergrowth, I could smell pungent fumes, was it bog-monster body odour, and I was covered in slime which I had, hitherto, taken as a spitting precipitation.

Cars passed by, not showing the slightest inclination to see if we were alright. We were soon on our way, leaving the bog-monsters and my imagination standing by the roadside.

When we rocked up at Wiggenhall St Mary Magdalen, to give it its full name, the locals have shortened it to just Magdalen, and who can blame them, we were excited to realise that, at long last, we had come across a manned church.

Inside we discovered a church warden, surprised to see us, that didn’t bode well, she didn’t even know about the bike ride, she was awaiting a delivery of kitchen units from Wickes. I have no idea if they turned up or not and, to be honest, I am not really sure that I care. I know that that doesn’t make me a good human being.

Once past Downham Market, even that was closed to visitors, things seemed to improve. The tiny village of Denver, like its Coloradan namesake in the Rockies, is high up in the Norfolk Alps. Not only did the scenery appear more appealing from my periphery vision, but trees offered shelter from the gusting wind.

The sun started to shine, and all seemed good with the world. Even though we were climbing some of the steepest, torturous hills that Norfolk has to offer, we were beginning to make better headway.

At times in the Fens, we had barely progressed at anything much more than a brisk walk. Here was different, though, we would sometimes be cracking along in the mid-teens, in terms of mph, quite often achieving speeds in excess of 20. Truly amazing, the end didn’t seem so far away.

Some of the roads out in the low-lying environs of the Fens hardly rated the description, some were so pocked with damage, they resembled a warzone.

Arriving in the uplands did not improve matters, especially the riband of damaged tarmac between Ryston and West Dereham. Do you know, some people spend good money to go to places like Alton Towers, £68 on the gate when I checked, for their thrills.

Well, I can tell you now, if you already own a bike, you can take yourself along to the Ryston Road and enjoy as much fun for nothing, free, gratis, whatever. It certainly has as much jeopardy involved. It is not really potholes, although some feel like abandoned mine workings, but tree roots hiding just under the road like arboreal landmines.

We hit one of these hazards so hard, at a tad over 20mph, that it ejected me from my seat, my backside and feet disconnected from the cycling machine before I came back down with a resounding crack. Ouch! Talk about test the testicles.

Not sure about you or is it only me. How is it when a job is given to highway engineers, they always seem to make matters worse. Recently, in our village they introduced a series of road closures which led to the inevitable diversions.

Some poor souls only needed to travel 20 metres or so to the next junction, but thanks to highway engineers they were faced with a diversion of six miles or more on roads ill-equipped to deal with such traffic. Then, give them the task of relieving snarled up lines of cars in a tourist hotspot, and they will do the job by spreading the problem over a wider area.

What about resurfacing of roads? Can someone explain why they will come and redress a potholed and damaged road and then, a week or two later, return to repair the potholes. It makes no sense.

I daresay if anyone can be bothered to seek an explanation, we will be informed the cash comes from different budgets. How much money could be saved by simply doing things in the right order, joining up the thinking.

Apologies for my long-winded diversion. Now for my solution, it is very simple. I propose that highways chiefs should be forced to ride bicycles at over 20 miles per hour, along country lanes, when working out their schedules for repair. They may well encounter bouncing balls lost by their owners, but they will, most certainly, gain a different perspective, and we will end up with the best roads in the world.I think we left The Swan, it wasn’t open, pretty much on time at 08:45. A word of thanks, before I forget altogether, for our back-up driver, photographer, social media manager and, be careful Robert, general dogsbody, my wife, Jane, who went ahead of us and prepared the way for our arrival into the various destinations.

It was slightly disappointing to find that the first 13 churches were closed, indeed, it seemed like there was more life in the graveyards than the churches, even the bats were fast asleep.

I think it only fair to fess up here, we probably arrived too early at the first few, so I shall excuse South Wootton, The Minster in KL, West Lynn, Clenchwarton, Terrington St Clement and Tilney All Saints.

What about the rest of you? Seven of you couldn’t even be bothered to show up to greet all of us cyclists, runners, walkers and classic car drivers who were making the effort to help your building survive. If it were down to me which, fortunately for you it is not, you wouldn’t be receiving a single penny of our hard earned and hard-fought cash.

Luckily the people at the NCT are, altogether, a jolly nice bunch and, I am sure, won’t discriminate when it comes to doling out grants.

As we got into the Fens proper, the wind was blowing and a thin spit of rain had started, just enough to make us, if not absolutely wet through, just slightly slimy.

The last thing you want in the Terringtons and Tilneys is to slip a chain. That is exactly what happened. Whilst Michael saw to the running repair I stood lookout against speeding cars, trying to make myself as conspicuous as possible in my hi-vis.

As my mind started to work overtime, I recalled a conversation with a friend from Shropshire, who had once worked in the Fens. He had warned me about the bog-monsters who lurked in this unforgiving land, residing in roadside ditches waiting to emerge and catch unsuspecting travellers, including cyclists, and devouring them whole.

I could hear skittering in the undergrowth, I could smell pungent fumes, was it bog-monster body odour, and I was covered in slime which I had, hitherto, taken as a spitting precipitation.

Cars passed by, not showing the slightest inclination to see if we were alright. We were soon on our way, leaving the bog-monsters and my imagination standing by the roadside.

When we rocked up at Wiggenhall St Mary Magdalen, to give it its full name, the locals have shortened it to just Magdalen, and who can blame them, we were excited to realise that, at long last, we had come across a manned church.

Inside we discovered a church warden, surprised to see us, that didn’t bode well, she didn’t even know about the bike ride, she was awaiting a delivery of kitchen units from Wickes. I have no idea if they turned up or not and, to be honest, I am not really sure that I care. I know that that doesn’t make me a good human being.

Once past Downham Market, even that was closed to visitors, things seemed to improve. The tiny village of Denver, like its Coloradan namesake in the Rockies, is high up in the Norfolk Alps. Not only did the scenery appear more appealing from my periphery vision, but trees offered shelter from the gusting wind.

The sun started to shine, and all seemed good with the world. Even though we were climbing some of the steepest, torturous hills that Norfolk has to offer, we were beginning to make better headway.

At times in the Fens, we had barely progressed at anything much more than a brisk walk. Here was different, though, we would sometimes be cracking along in the mid-teens, in terms of mph, quite often achieving speeds in excess of 20. Truly amazing, the end didn’t seem so far away.

Some of the roads out in the low-lying environs of the Fens hardly rated the description, some were so pocked with damage, they resembled a warzone.

Arriving in the uplands did not improve matters, especially the riband of damaged tarmac between Ryston and West Dereham. Do you know, some people spend good money to go to places like Alton Towers, £68 on the gate when I checked, for their thrills.

Well, I can tell you now, if you already own a bike, you can take yourself along to the Ryston Road and enjoy as much fun for nothing, free, gratis, whatever. It certainly has as much jeopardy involved. It is not really potholes, although some feel like abandoned mine workings, but tree roots hiding just under the road like arboreal landmines.

We hit one of these hazards so hard, at a tad over 20mph, that it ejected me from my seat, my backside and feet disconnected from the cycling machine before I came back down with a resounding crack. Ouch! Talk about test the testicles.

Not sure about you or is it only me. How is it when a job is given to highway engineers, they always seem to make matters worse. Recently, in our village they introduced a series of road closures which led to the inevitable diversions.

Some poor souls only needed to travel 20 metres or so to the next junction, but thanks to highway engineers they were faced with a diversion of six miles or more on roads ill-equipped to deal with such traffic. Then, give them the task of relieving snarled up lines of cars in a tourist hotspot, and they will do the job by spreading the problem over a wider area.

What about resurfacing of roads? Can someone explain why they will come and redress a potholed and damaged road and then, a week or two later, return to repair the potholes. It makes no sense.

I daresay if anyone can be bothered to seek an explanation, we will be informed the cash comes from different budgets. How much money could be saved by simply doing things in the right order, joining up the thinking.

Apologies for my long-winded diversion. Now for my solution, it is very simple. I propose that highways chiefs should be forced to ride bicycles at over 20 miles per hour, along country lanes, when working out their schedules for repair. They may well encounter bouncing balls lost by their owners, but they will, most certainly, gain a different perspective, and we will end up with the best roads in the world.I think we left The Swan, it wasn’t open, pretty much on time at 08:45. A word of thanks, before I forget altogether, for our back-up driver, photographer, social media manager and, be careful Robert, general dogsbody, my wife, Jane, who went ahead of us and prepared the way for our arrival into the various destinations.

It was slightly disappointing to find that the first 13 churches were closed, indeed, it seemed like there was more life in the graveyards than the churches, even the bats were fast asleep.

I think it only fair to fess up here, we probably arrived too early at the first few, so I shall excuse South Wootton, The Minster in KL, West Lynn, Clenchwarton, Terrington St Clement and Tilney All Saints.

What about the rest of you? Seven of you couldn’t even be bothered to show up to greet all of us cyclists, runners, walkers and classic car drivers who were making the effort to help your building survive. If it were down to me which, fortunately for you it is not, you wouldn’t be receiving a single penny of our hard earned and hard-fought cash.

Luckily the people at the NCT are, altogether, a jolly nice bunch and, I am sure, won’t discriminate when it comes to doling out grants.

As we got into the Fens proper, the wind was blowing and a thin spit of rain had started, just enough to make us, if not absolutely wet through, just slightly slimy.

The last thing you want in the Terringtons and Tilneys is to slip a chain. That is exactly what happened. Whilst Michael saw to the running repair I stood lookout against speeding cars, trying to make myself as conspicuous as possible in my hi-vis.

As my mind started to work overtime, I recalled a conversation with a friend from Shropshire, who had once worked in the Fens. He had warned me about the bog-monsters who lurked in this unforgiving land, residing in roadside ditches waiting to emerge and catch unsuspecting travellers, including cyclists, and devouring them whole.

I could hear skittering in the undergrowth, I could smell pungent fumes, was it bog-monster body odour, and I was covered in slime which I had, hitherto, taken as a spitting precipitation.

Cars passed by, not showing the slightest inclination to see if we were alright. We were soon on our way, leaving the bog-monsters and my imagination standing by the roadside.

When we rocked up at Wiggenhall St Mary Magdalen, to give it its full name, the locals have shortened it to just Magdalen, and who can blame them, we were excited to realise that, at long last, we had come across a manned church.

Inside we discovered a church warden, surprised to see us, that didn’t bode well, she didn’t even know about the bike ride, she was awaiting a delivery of kitchen units from Wickes. I have no idea if they turned up or not and, to be honest, I am not really sure that I care. I know that that doesn’t make me a good human being.

Once past Downham Market, even that was closed to visitors, things seemed to improve. The tiny village of Denver, like its Coloradan namesake in the Rockies, is high up in the Norfolk Alps. Not only did the scenery appear more appealing from my periphery vision, but trees offered shelter from the gusting wind.

The sun started to shine, and all seemed good with the world. Even though we were climbing some of the steepest, torturous hills that Norfolk has to offer, we were beginning to make better headway.

At times in the Fens, we had barely progressed at anything much more than a brisk walk. Here was different, though, we would sometimes be cracking along in the mid-teens, in terms of mph, quite often achieving speeds in excess of 20. Truly amazing, the end didn’t seem so far away.

Some of the roads out in the low-lying environs of the Fens hardly rated the description, some were so pocked with damage, they resembled a warzone.

Arriving in the uplands did not improve matters, especially the riband of damaged tarmac between Ryston and West Dereham. Do you know, some people spend good money to go to places like Alton Towers, £68 on the gate when I checked, for their thrills.

Well, I can tell you now, if you already own a bike, you can take yourself along to the Ryston Road and enjoy as much fun for nothing, free, gratis, whatever. It certainly has as much jeopardy involved. It is not really potholes, although some feel like abandoned mine workings, but tree roots hiding just under the road like arboreal landmines.

We hit one of these hazards so hard, at a tad over 20mph, that it ejected me from my seat, my backside and feet disconnected from the cycling machine before I came back down with a resounding crack. Ouch! Talk about test the testicles.

Not sure about you or is it only me. How is it when a job is given to highway engineers, they always seem to make matters worse. Recently, in our village they introduced a series of road closures which led to the inevitable diversions.

Some poor souls only needed to travel 20 metres or so to the next junction, but thanks to highway engineers they were faced with a diversion of six miles or more on roads ill-equipped to deal with such traffic. Then, give them the task of relieving snarled up lines of cars in a tourist hotspot, and they will do the job by spreading the problem over a wider area.

What about resurfacing of roads? Can someone explain why they will come and redress a potholed and damaged road and then, a week or two later, return to repair the potholes. It makes no sense.

I daresay if anyone can be bothered to seek an explanation, we will be informed the cash comes from different budgets. How much money could be saved by simply doing things in the right order, joining up the thinking.

Apologies for my long-winded diversion. Now for my solution, it is very simple. I propose that highways chiefs should be forced to ride bicycles at over 20 miles per hour, along country lanes, when working out their schedules for repair. They may well encounter bouncing balls lost by their owners, but they will, most certainly, gain a different perspective, and we will end up with the best roads in the world.

<Robert and Michael outside St Mary's Church, Denver, chatting to the local church warden>
It was at West Dereham where Jane remembered we had taken a box of my Lionheart novels out with us. We were intending to sell them for £5 apiece, every penny going to the causes, not that there had been anyone to sell them to so far, the only people we had encountered thus far were dead, reminding me of some of the audiences I speak to.

I hasten to add, not all of them were like that. We encountered a lovely trio of ladies, Elaine, Anita and Susan, two of whom said they would buy a book each. Well done, Jane. If you don’t ask you don’t get. I hadn’t reckoned on being invited to sign them. Given the condition of my eyes pen control, I am afraid to say, is not my greatest attribute. Add shaking clawlike hands into the mix and it was nigh on impossible. I couldn’t even grip the pen properly. It must be the worst autograph I have ever provided. Sorry!

The next time Jane donned her sales hat, the Reverend Pippa offered to buy two, not sure what the second one was for, I suspect the toilet stall in Boughton had run out of paper, maybe that’s what both of them were for. I urged Michael to make a quick getaway. Another ignominious signing was not in my plans.It was at West Dereham where Jane remembered we had taken a box of my Lionheart novels out with us. We were intending to sell them for £5 apiece, every penny going to the causes, not that there had been anyone to sell them to so far, the only people we had encountered thus far were dead, reminding me of some of the audiences I speak to.

I hasten to add, not all of them were like that. We encountered a lovely trio of ladies, Elaine, Anita and Susan, two of whom said they would buy a book each. Well done, Jane. If you don’t ask you don’t get. I hadn’t reckoned on being invited to sign them. Given the condition of my eyes pen control, I am afraid to say, is not my greatest attribute. Add shaking clawlike hands into the mix and it was nigh on impossible. I couldn’t even grip the pen properly. It must be the worst autograph I have ever provided. Sorry!

The next time Jane donned her sales hat, the Reverend Pippa offered to buy two, not sure what the second one was for, I suspect the toilet stall in Boughton had run out of paper, maybe that’s what both of them were for. I urged Michael to make a quick getaway. Another ignominious signing was not in my plans.It was at West Dereham where Jane remembered we had taken a box of my Lionheart novels out with us. We were intending to sell them for £5 apiece, every penny going to the causes, not that there had been anyone to sell them to so far, the only people we had encountered thus far were dead, reminding me of some of the audiences I speak to.

I hasten to add, not all of them were like that. We encountered a lovely trio of ladies, Elaine, Anita and Susan, two of whom said they would buy a book each. Well done, Jane. If you don’t ask you don’t get. I hadn’t reckoned on being invited to sign them. Given the condition of my eyes pen control, I am afraid to say, is not my greatest attribute. Add shaking clawlike hands into the mix and it was nigh on impossible. I couldn’t even grip the pen properly. It must be the worst autograph I have ever provided. Sorry!

The next time Jane donned her sales hat, the Reverend Pippa offered to buy two, not sure what the second one was for, I suspect the toilet stall in Boughton had run out of paper, maybe that’s what both of them were for. I urged Michael to make a quick getaway. Another ignominious signing was not in my plans.It was at West Dereham where Jane remembered we had taken a box of my Lionheart novels out with us. We were intending to sell them for £5 apiece, every penny going to the causes, not that there had been anyone to sell them to so far, the only people we had encountered thus far were dead, reminding me of some of the audiences I speak to.

I hasten to add, not all of them were like that. We encountered a lovely trio of ladies, Elaine, Anita and Susan, two of whom said they would buy a book each. Well done, Jane. If you don’t ask you don’t get. I hadn’t reckoned on being invited to sign them. Given the condition of my eyes pen control, I am afraid to say, is not my greatest attribute. Add shaking clawlike hands into the mix and it was nigh on impossible. I couldn’t even grip the pen properly. It must be the worst autograph I have ever provided. Sorry!

The next time Jane donned her sales hat, the Reverend Pippa offered to buy two, not sure what the second one was for, I suspect the toilet stall in Boughton had run out of paper, maybe that’s what both of them were for. I urged Michael to make a quick getaway. Another ignominious signing was not in my plans.It was at West Dereham where Jane remembered we had taken a box of my Lionheart novels out with us. We were intending to sell them for £5 apiece, every penny going to the causes, not that there had been anyone to sell them to so far, the only people we had encountered thus far were dead, reminding me of some of the audiences I speak to.

I hasten to add, not all of them were like that. We encountered a lovely trio of ladies, Elaine, Anita and Susan, two of whom said they would buy a book each. Well done, Jane. If you don’t ask you don’t get. I hadn’t reckoned on being invited to sign them. Given the condition of my eyes pen control, I am afraid to say, is not my greatest attribute. Add shaking clawlike hands into the mix and it was nigh on impossible. I couldn’t even grip the pen properly. It must be the worst autograph I have ever provided. Sorry!

The next time Jane donned her sales hat, the Reverend Pippa offered to buy two, not sure what the second one was for, I suspect the toilet stall in Boughton had run out of paper, maybe that’s what both of them were for. I urged Michael to make a quick getaway. Another ignominious signing was not in my plans.It was at West Dereham where Jane remembered we had taken a box of my Lionheart novels out with us. We were intending to sell them for £5 apiece, every penny going to the causes, not that there had been anyone to sell them to so far, the only people we had encountered thus far were dead, reminding me of some of the audiences I speak to.

I hasten to add, not all of them were like that. We encountered a lovely trio of ladies, Elaine, Anita and Susan, two of whom said they would buy a book each. Well done, Jane. If you don’t ask you don’t get. I hadn’t reckoned on being invited to sign them. Given the condition of my eyes pen control, I am afraid to say, is not my greatest attribute. Add shaking clawlike hands into the mix and it was nigh on impossible. I couldn’t even grip the pen properly. It must be the worst autograph I have ever provided. Sorry!

The next time Jane donned her sales hat, the Reverend Pippa offered to buy two, not sure what the second one was for, I suspect the toilet stall in Boughton had run out of paper, maybe that’s what both of them were for. I urged Michael to make a quick getaway. Another ignominious signing was not in my plans.It was at West Dereham where Jane remembered we had taken a box of my Lionheart novels out with us. We were intending to sell them for £5 apiece, every penny going to the causes, not that there had been anyone to sell them to so far, the only people we had encountered thus far were dead, reminding me of some of the audiences I speak to.

I hasten to add, not all of them were like that. We encountered a lovely trio of ladies, Elaine, Anita and Susan, two of whom said they would buy a book each. Well done, Jane. If you don’t ask you don’t get. I hadn’t reckoned on being invited to sign them. Given the condition of my eyes pen control, I am afraid to say, is not my greatest attribute. Add shaking clawlike hands into the mix and it was nigh on impossible. I couldn’t even grip the pen properly. It must be the worst autograph I have ever provided. Sorry!

The next time Jane donned her sales hat, the Reverend Pippa offered to buy two, not sure what the second one was for, I suspect the toilet stall in Boughton had run out of paper, maybe that’s what both of them were for. I urged Michael to make a quick getaway. Another ignominious signing was not in my plans.

<Jane and Robert were greeted by Wanda, a golden retriever at St Margaret's Church, Wereham>
When we popped into the delightful little church of Wereham, Michael stayed outside, Jane and I were greeted by the wonderful Wanda, a golden retriever, who had taken on the role of a partner dog.

I am not sure what attracted her to this particular sweat sodden cyclist, but she seemed very taken with me. She licked my salt encrusted legs. She was so good that her owner managed to get her to pose for some photographs. I know that this can sometimes be a challenge, we have a number of grand puppies, as well as grandchildren, and getting any of them to sit still for the camera is a right old trial.

Of all the pretty little hamlets and villages we passed through, I think Boughton stood head and shoulders above them all. It is a picturesque settlement with a grand duckpond close to the church, although it has to be said, without water, albeit there seemed like hundreds of ducks waiting, ever hopeful that the rains will come some time soon.

One downside is that the approaching road has the name, Gibbets Lane, reminding us of the good old days. I wondered what gruesome scenes would have greeted us had we travelled this way around two hundred years earlier.

Next was Barton Bendish. Now isn’t that the loveliest of names? It was the next stage where I began to feel it. Michael, at about halfway into the leg, stated that we had about two-and-a-half miles to go to Narborough church. Twenty miles per hour, quick calculation called for, should take around seven-and-a-half minutes. It seemed to go on, and on, and just when I thought it would be around the next bend, it went on some more.

It was an absolute joy to be greeted by the most regular of my running VI guides, Nik Bryan, and his lovely wife, Sharon. As I have mentioned several times previously, in these pages Nik suffers from a very debilitating condition, Witzelsucht, and I think in his case it is actually terminal.

As Michael and I strode back to the gate, in Nik’s company, the women had gone off in front and talked about whatever women talk about, Nik told of how he had observed a couple of men walking around with shovels, passing among the graves, clearly disoriented and looking for something.

Oh no, I thought, thinking I knew roughly where this was going.

Michael did offer, out loud I am sorry to say, “I wonder what they were doing?”

Nik does not need a second invitation. “Not sure,” he responded. “I think they had lost the plot!”

Michael laughed out loud.

“Oh please, Michael,” I said. “Please don’t encourage him.”

It did perk us up a little, or me at any rate, which I certainly needed at that stage.

South Acre, ahoy! We now had to negotiate the Acres. My thigh muscles were beginning to burn. As I said when reporting on our dry run, I was aching in the Acres. Not a great condition!

On reflection, I think the hardest bit was from Castle Acre to Great Massingham. Funny thing is, if we, when in a car, turn off the A1065 at this point it feels like we are just about home. On a bike that is not the case at all. I could not believe how hilly it was, I bet the King of the Mountains in the Tour de France doesn’t have anything like that to contend with.

It also provided me with the most exhilarating bit, we hit 34mph at one point. All good downhills have to end, only to be replaced with nasty big uphills.When we popped into the delightful little church of Wereham, Michael stayed outside, Jane and I were greeted by the wonderful Wanda, a golden retriever, who had taken on the role of a partner dog.

I am not sure what attracted her to this particular sweat sodden cyclist, but she seemed very taken with me. She licked my salt encrusted legs. She was so good that her owner managed to get her to pose for some photographs. I know that this can sometimes be a challenge, we have a number of grand puppies, as well as grandchildren, and getting any of them to sit still for the camera is a right old trial.

Of all the pretty little hamlets and villages we passed through, I think Boughton stood head and shoulders above them all. It is a picturesque settlement with a grand duckpond close to the church, although it has to be said, without water, albeit there seemed like hundreds of ducks waiting, ever hopeful that the rains will come some time soon.

One downside is that the approaching road has the name, Gibbets Lane, reminding us of the good old days. I wondered what gruesome scenes would have greeted us had we travelled this way around two hundred years earlier.

Next was Barton Bendish. Now isn’t that the loveliest of names? It was the next stage where I began to feel it. Michael, at about halfway into the leg, stated that we had about two-and-a-half miles to go to Narborough church. Twenty miles per hour, quick calculation called for, should take around seven-and-a-half minutes. It seemed to go on, and on, and just when I thought it would be around the next bend, it went on some more.

It was an absolute joy to be greeted by the most regular of my running VI guides, Nik Bryan, and his lovely wife, Sharon. As I have mentioned several times previously, in these pages Nik suffers from a very debilitating condition, Witzelsucht, and I think in his case it is actually terminal.

As Michael and I strode back to the gate, in Nik’s company, the women had gone off in front and talked about whatever women talk about, Nik told of how he had observed a couple of men walking around with shovels, passing among the graves, clearly disoriented and looking for something.

Oh no, I thought, thinking I knew roughly where this was going.

Michael did offer, out loud I am sorry to say, “I wonder what they were doing?”

Nik does not need a second invitation. “Not sure,” he responded. “I think they had lost the plot!”

Michael laughed out loud.

“Oh please, Michael,” I said. “Please don’t encourage him.”

It did perk us up a little, or me at any rate, which I certainly needed at that stage.

South Acre, ahoy! We now had to negotiate the Acres. My thigh muscles were beginning to burn. As I said when reporting on our dry run, I was aching in the Acres. Not a great condition!

On reflection, I think the hardest bit was from Castle Acre to Great Massingham. Funny thing is, if we, when in a car, turn off the A1065 at this point it feels like we are just about home. On a bike that is not the case at all. I could not believe how hilly it was, I bet the King of the Mountains in the Tour de France doesn’t have anything like that to contend with.

It also provided me with the most exhilarating bit, we hit 34mph at one point. All good downhills have to end, only to be replaced with nasty big uphills.When we popped into the delightful little church of Wereham, Michael stayed outside, Jane and I were greeted by the wonderful Wanda, a golden retriever, who had taken on the role of a partner dog.

I am not sure what attracted her to this particular sweat sodden cyclist, but she seemed very taken with me. She licked my salt encrusted legs. She was so good that her owner managed to get her to pose for some photographs. I know that this can sometimes be a challenge, we have a number of grand puppies, as well as grandchildren, and getting any of them to sit still for the camera is a right old trial.

Of all the pretty little hamlets and villages we passed through, I think Boughton stood head and shoulders above them all. It is a picturesque settlement with a grand duckpond close to the church, although it has to be said, without water, albeit there seemed like hundreds of ducks waiting, ever hopeful that the rains will come some time soon.

One downside is that the approaching road has the name, Gibbets Lane, reminding us of the good old days. I wondered what gruesome scenes would have greeted us had we travelled this way around two hundred years earlier.

Next was Barton Bendish. Now isn’t that the loveliest of names? It was the next stage where I began to feel it. Michael, at about halfway into the leg, stated that we had about two-and-a-half miles to go to Narborough church. Twenty miles per hour, quick calculation called for, should take around seven-and-a-half minutes. It seemed to go on, and on, and just when I thought it would be around the next bend, it went on some more.

It was an absolute joy to be greeted by the most regular of my running VI guides, Nik Bryan, and his lovely wife, Sharon. As I have mentioned several times previously, in these pages Nik suffers from a very debilitating condition, Witzelsucht, and I think in his case it is actually terminal.

As Michael and I strode back to the gate, in Nik’s company, the women had gone off in front and talked about whatever women talk about, Nik told of how he had observed a couple of men walking around with shovels, passing among the graves, clearly disoriented and looking for something.

Oh no, I thought, thinking I knew roughly where this was going.

Michael did offer, out loud I am sorry to say, “I wonder what they were doing?”

Nik does not need a second invitation. “Not sure,” he responded. “I think they had lost the plot!”

Michael laughed out loud.

“Oh please, Michael,” I said. “Please don’t encourage him.”

It did perk us up a little, or me at any rate, which I certainly needed at that stage.

South Acre, ahoy! We now had to negotiate the Acres. My thigh muscles were beginning to burn. As I said when reporting on our dry run, I was aching in the Acres. Not a great condition!

On reflection, I think the hardest bit was from Castle Acre to Great Massingham. Funny thing is, if we, when in a car, turn off the A1065 at this point it feels like we are just about home. On a bike that is not the case at all. I could not believe how hilly it was, I bet the King of the Mountains in the Tour de France doesn’t have anything like that to contend with.

It also provided me with the most exhilarating bit, we hit 34mph at one point. All good downhills have to end, only to be replaced with nasty big uphills.When we popped into the delightful little church of Wereham, Michael stayed outside, Jane and I were greeted by the wonderful Wanda, a golden retriever, who had taken on the role of a partner dog.

I am not sure what attracted her to this particular sweat sodden cyclist, but she seemed very taken with me. She licked my salt encrusted legs. She was so good that her owner managed to get her to pose for some photographs. I know that this can sometimes be a challenge, we have a number of grand puppies, as well as grandchildren, and getting any of them to sit still for the camera is a right old trial.

Of all the pretty little hamlets and villages we passed through, I think Boughton stood head and shoulders above them all. It is a picturesque settlement with a grand duckpond close to the church, although it has to be said, without water, albeit there seemed like hundreds of ducks waiting, ever hopeful that the rains will come some time soon.

One downside is that the approaching road has the name, Gibbets Lane, reminding us of the good old days. I wondered what gruesome scenes would have greeted us had we travelled this way around two hundred years earlier.

Next was Barton Bendish. Now isn’t that the loveliest of names? It was the next stage where I began to feel it. Michael, at about halfway into the leg, stated that we had about two-and-a-half miles to go to Narborough church. Twenty miles per hour, quick calculation called for, should take around seven-and-a-half minutes. It seemed to go on, and on, and just when I thought it would be around the next bend, it went on some more.

It was an absolute joy to be greeted by the most regular of my running VI guides, Nik Bryan, and his lovely wife, Sharon. As I have mentioned several times previously, in these pages Nik suffers from a very debilitating condition, Witzelsucht, and I think in his case it is actually terminal.

As Michael and I strode back to the gate, in Nik’s company, the women had gone off in front and talked about whatever women talk about, Nik told of how he had observed a couple of men walking around with shovels, passing among the graves, clearly disoriented and looking for something.

Oh no, I thought, thinking I knew roughly where this was going.

Michael did offer, out loud I am sorry to say, “I wonder what they were doing?”

Nik does not need a second invitation. “Not sure,” he responded. “I think they had lost the plot!”

Michael laughed out loud.

“Oh please, Michael,” I said. “Please don’t encourage him.”

It did perk us up a little, or me at any rate, which I certainly needed at that stage.

South Acre, ahoy! We now had to negotiate the Acres. My thigh muscles were beginning to burn. As I said when reporting on our dry run, I was aching in the Acres. Not a great condition!

On reflection, I think the hardest bit was from Castle Acre to Great Massingham. Funny thing is, if we, when in a car, turn off the A1065 at this point it feels like we are just about home. On a bike that is not the case at all. I could not believe how hilly it was, I bet the King of the Mountains in the Tour de France doesn’t have anything like that to contend with.

It also provided me with the most exhilarating bit, we hit 34mph at one point. All good downhills have to end, only to be replaced with nasty big uphills.When we popped into the delightful little church of Wereham, Michael stayed outside, Jane and I were greeted by the wonderful Wanda, a golden retriever, who had taken on the role of a partner dog.

I am not sure what attracted her to this particular sweat sodden cyclist, but she seemed very taken with me. She licked my salt encrusted legs. She was so good that her owner managed to get her to pose for some photographs. I know that this can sometimes be a challenge, we have a number of grand puppies, as well as grandchildren, and getting any of them to sit still for the camera is a right old trial.

Of all the pretty little hamlets and villages we passed through, I think Boughton stood head and shoulders above them all. It is a picturesque settlement with a grand duckpond close to the church, although it has to be said, without water, albeit there seemed like hundreds of ducks waiting, ever hopeful that the rains will come some time soon.

One downside is that the approaching road has the name, Gibbets Lane, reminding us of the good old days. I wondered what gruesome scenes would have greeted us had we travelled this way around two hundred years earlier.

Next was Barton Bendish. Now isn’t that the loveliest of names? It was the next stage where I began to feel it. Michael, at about halfway into the leg, stated that we had about two-and-a-half miles to go to Narborough church. Twenty miles per hour, quick calculation called for, should take around seven-and-a-half minutes. It seemed to go on, and on, and just when I thought it would be around the next bend, it went on some more.

It was an absolute joy to be greeted by the most regular of my running VI guides, Nik Bryan, and his lovely wife, Sharon. As I have mentioned several times previously, in these pages Nik suffers from a very debilitating condition, Witzelsucht, and I think in his case it is actually terminal.

As Michael and I strode back to the gate, in Nik’s company, the women had gone off in front and talked about whatever women talk about, Nik told of how he had observed a couple of men walking around with shovels, passing among the graves, clearly disoriented and looking for something.

Oh no, I thought, thinking I knew roughly where this was going.

Michael did offer, out loud I am sorry to say, “I wonder what they were doing?”

Nik does not need a second invitation. “Not sure,” he responded. “I think they had lost the plot!”

Michael laughed out loud.

“Oh please, Michael,” I said. “Please don’t encourage him.”

It did perk us up a little, or me at any rate, which I certainly needed at that stage.

South Acre, ahoy! We now had to negotiate the Acres. My thigh muscles were beginning to burn. As I said when reporting on our dry run, I was aching in the Acres. Not a great condition!

On reflection, I think the hardest bit was from Castle Acre to Great Massingham. Funny thing is, if we, when in a car, turn off the A1065 at this point it feels like we are just about home. On a bike that is not the case at all. I could not believe how hilly it was, I bet the King of the Mountains in the Tour de France doesn’t have anything like that to contend with.

It also provided me with the most exhilarating bit, we hit 34mph at one point. All good downhills have to end, only to be replaced with nasty big uphills.When we popped into the delightful little church of Wereham, Michael stayed outside, Jane and I were greeted by the wonderful Wanda, a golden retriever, who had taken on the role of a partner dog.

I am not sure what attracted her to this particular sweat sodden cyclist, but she seemed very taken with me. She licked my salt encrusted legs. She was so good that her owner managed to get her to pose for some photographs. I know that this can sometimes be a challenge, we have a number of grand puppies, as well as grandchildren, and getting any of them to sit still for the camera is a right old trial.

Of all the pretty little hamlets and villages we passed through, I think Boughton stood head and shoulders above them all. It is a picturesque settlement with a grand duckpond close to the church, although it has to be said, without water, albeit there seemed like hundreds of ducks waiting, ever hopeful that the rains will come some time soon.

One downside is that the approaching road has the name, Gibbets Lane, reminding us of the good old days. I wondered what gruesome scenes would have greeted us had we travelled this way around two hundred years earlier.

Next was Barton Bendish. Now isn’t that the loveliest of names? It was the next stage where I began to feel it. Michael, at about halfway into the leg, stated that we had about two-and-a-half miles to go to Narborough church. Twenty miles per hour, quick calculation called for, should take around seven-and-a-half minutes. It seemed to go on, and on, and just when I thought it would be around the next bend, it went on some more.

It was an absolute joy to be greeted by the most regular of my running VI guides, Nik Bryan, and his lovely wife, Sharon. As I have mentioned several times previously, in these pages Nik suffers from a very debilitating condition, Witzelsucht, and I think in his case it is actually terminal.

As Michael and I strode back to the gate, in Nik’s company, the women had gone off in front and talked about whatever women talk about, Nik told of how he had observed a couple of men walking around with shovels, passing among the graves, clearly disoriented and looking for something.

Oh no, I thought, thinking I knew roughly where this was going.

Michael did offer, out loud I am sorry to say, “I wonder what they were doing?”

Nik does not need a second invitation. “Not sure,” he responded. “I think they had lost the plot!”

Michael laughed out loud.

“Oh please, Michael,” I said. “Please don’t encourage him.”

It did perk us up a little, or me at any rate, which I certainly needed at that stage.

South Acre, ahoy! We now had to negotiate the Acres. My thigh muscles were beginning to burn. As I said when reporting on our dry run, I was aching in the Acres. Not a great condition!

On reflection, I think the hardest bit was from Castle Acre to Great Massingham. Funny thing is, if we, when in a car, turn off the A1065 at this point it feels like we are just about home. On a bike that is not the case at all. I could not believe how hilly it was, I bet the King of the Mountains in the Tour de France doesn’t have anything like that to contend with.

It also provided me with the most exhilarating bit, we hit 34mph at one point. All good downhills have to end, only to be replaced with nasty big uphills.When we popped into the delightful little church of Wereham, Michael stayed outside, Jane and I were greeted by the wonderful Wanda, a golden retriever, who had taken on the role of a partner dog.

I am not sure what attracted her to this particular sweat sodden cyclist, but she seemed very taken with me. She licked my salt encrusted legs. She was so good that her owner managed to get her to pose for some photographs. I know that this can sometimes be a challenge, we have a number of grand puppies, as well as grandchildren, and getting any of them to sit still for the camera is a right old trial.

Of all the pretty little hamlets and villages we passed through, I think Boughton stood head and shoulders above them all. It is a picturesque settlement with a grand duckpond close to the church, although it has to be said, without water, albeit there seemed like hundreds of ducks waiting, ever hopeful that the rains will come some time soon.

One downside is that the approaching road has the name, Gibbets Lane, reminding us of the good old days. I wondered what gruesome scenes would have greeted us had we travelled this way around two hundred years earlier.

Next was Barton Bendish. Now isn’t that the loveliest of names? It was the next stage where I began to feel it. Michael, at about halfway into the leg, stated that we had about two-and-a-half miles to go to Narborough church. Twenty miles per hour, quick calculation called for, should take around seven-and-a-half minutes. It seemed to go on, and on, and just when I thought it would be around the next bend, it went on some more.

It was an absolute joy to be greeted by the most regular of my running VI guides, Nik Bryan, and his lovely wife, Sharon. As I have mentioned several times previously, in these pages Nik suffers from a very debilitating condition, Witzelsucht, and I think in his case it is actually terminal.

As Michael and I strode back to the gate, in Nik’s company, the women had gone off in front and talked about whatever women talk about, Nik told of how he had observed a couple of men walking around with shovels, passing among the graves, clearly disoriented and looking for something.

Oh no, I thought, thinking I knew roughly where this was going.

Michael did offer, out loud I am sorry to say, “I wonder what they were doing?”

Nik does not need a second invitation. “Not sure,” he responded. “I think they had lost the plot!”

Michael laughed out loud.

“Oh please, Michael,” I said. “Please don’t encourage him.”

It did perk us up a little, or me at any rate, which I certainly needed at that stage.

South Acre, ahoy! We now had to negotiate the Acres. My thigh muscles were beginning to burn. As I said when reporting on our dry run, I was aching in the Acres. Not a great condition!

On reflection, I think the hardest bit was from Castle Acre to Great Massingham. Funny thing is, if we, when in a car, turn off the A1065 at this point it feels like we are just about home. On a bike that is not the case at all. I could not believe how hilly it was, I bet the King of the Mountains in the Tour de France doesn’t have anything like that to contend with.

It also provided me with the most exhilarating bit, we hit 34mph at one point. All good downhills have to end, only to be replaced with nasty big uphills.When we popped into the delightful little church of Wereham, Michael stayed outside, Jane and I were greeted by the wonderful Wanda, a golden retriever, who had taken on the role of a partner dog.

I am not sure what attracted her to this particular sweat sodden cyclist, but she seemed very taken with me. She licked my salt encrusted legs. She was so good that her owner managed to get her to pose for some photographs. I know that this can sometimes be a challenge, we have a number of grand puppies, as well as grandchildren, and getting any of them to sit still for the camera is a right old trial.

Of all the pretty little hamlets and villages we passed through, I think Boughton stood head and shoulders above them all. It is a picturesque settlement with a grand duckpond close to the church, although it has to be said, without water, albeit there seemed like hundreds of ducks waiting, ever hopeful that the rains will come some time soon.

One downside is that the approaching road has the name, Gibbets Lane, reminding us of the good old days. I wondered what gruesome scenes would have greeted us had we travelled this way around two hundred years earlier.

Next was Barton Bendish. Now isn’t that the loveliest of names? It was the next stage where I began to feel it. Michael, at about halfway into the leg, stated that we had about two-and-a-half miles to go to Narborough church. Twenty miles per hour, quick calculation called for, should take around seven-and-a-half minutes. It seemed to go on, and on, and just when I thought it would be around the next bend, it went on some more.

It was an absolute joy to be greeted by the most regular of my running VI guides, Nik Bryan, and his lovely wife, Sharon. As I have mentioned several times previously, in these pages Nik suffers from a very debilitating condition, Witzelsucht, and I think in his case it is actually terminal.

As Michael and I strode back to the gate, in Nik’s company, the women had gone off in front and talked about whatever women talk about, Nik told of how he had observed a couple of men walking around with shovels, passing among the graves, clearly disoriented and looking for something.

Oh no, I thought, thinking I knew roughly where this was going.

Michael did offer, out loud I am sorry to say, “I wonder what they were doing?”

Nik does not need a second invitation. “Not sure,” he responded. “I think they had lost the plot!”

Michael laughed out loud.

“Oh please, Michael,” I said. “Please don’t encourage him.”

It did perk us up a little, or me at any rate, which I certainly needed at that stage.

South Acre, ahoy! We now had to negotiate the Acres. My thigh muscles were beginning to burn. As I said when reporting on our dry run, I was aching in the Acres. Not a great condition!

On reflection, I think the hardest bit was from Castle Acre to Great Massingham. Funny thing is, if we, when in a car, turn off the A1065 at this point it feels like we are just about home. On a bike that is not the case at all. I could not believe how hilly it was, I bet the King of the Mountains in the Tour de France doesn’t have anything like that to contend with.

It also provided me with the most exhilarating bit, we hit 34mph at one point. All good downhills have to end, only to be replaced with nasty big uphills.
<Robert and Jane overcome with emotion as the bells of St Andrews Church, Little Massingham rang out for the first time in 40 years>

We got to St Mary’s in Great Massingham eventually. There were discarded bikes everywhere, it was as if there had been a repelled cycling cavalry assault on the church.

As we entered the nave, we bumped into the local vicar, Joshua Whitnell, who is renowned for ministering to his flock in more ways than one. His collection of sheep can often be seen munching on the grass between the gravestones.

He said, “We have just come from Little Massingham, and I can tell you they are preparing a right old welcome for you there, they will even be ringing the bells for the first time in 40 years, or so I am told anyway.”

I muttered something along the lines that they had better not be. Maybe the actual words I used should not have been used in a house of God.

“Honestly,” he said.

I shrugged and wondered if vicars were allowed to spin yarns. I dismissed that ignoble notion from my mind and decided that he must be telling the gospel truth.

It did spur me on and, in the process, made me forget the pain. I managed to grumble all the way to Harpley and then onto Little Massingham. I think I was doing so much whining that it drowned out the sound of fighter jets above. I must apologise to Harpley, I was pretty much spent by the time we got to you, and didn’t feel much like going inside

As we turned into Church Lane, Little Massingham, sure enough, the bells started to sound out.

I can’t remember exactly what I continued to mutter, I am certainly not going to write it here, but it probably involved something along the lines of dropping Rosemary from the top of the tower. My embarrassment was made complete when Jane embraced me in a huge hug. She was crying and that only served to set me off. The flowing tears were only tempered by the relief.

The reception was incredible. Thank you one and all for turning out to welcome us. Don’t ever forget, though, spare a thought for Michael, who still had eleven miles to cycle home.

At long last it was over. A journalist asked me what was next. At the time I could not conceive of ever getting on a bike ever again. Time is a great healer, however, and maybe there is something a little further down the line. Ideas are all welcome.

I can reveal this, however, Jane will be starting her journey to becoming a tandem pilot during this coming week.

Just before I go, I wanted to share this with you. In the first instance it made me feel good, but I am not so sure now. A lady, I’m not quite sure how it came into conversation, asked how old I was. Jane said I was 66.

“Really!” she exclaimed.

I thought that I would take that any day of the week. What can be better for a man of advanced years than someone implying that he looks much younger. I was walking on air. Then, earlier this week, a piece appeared in the online version of a local publication that included a pretty unflattering photograph...

I received a comment saying that I looked like the old Duke of Edinburgh… just before he died. Maybe that very nice lady was actually staggered that I was only 66.

Don’t worry, none taken, I am what I am!

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