June 24 2007. Negotiating the urban sprawl of "rugby league" country was never going to be the prettiest part of the route. The names were familiar from Saturday grandstand - Wigan, Warrington - and for once the heavy rain seemed the appropriate weather for the industrial landscape. With little wind and a relatively flat profile, the riding felt easier, although the endless succession of traffic lights made it difficult to settle into a rythym. In the afternoon the sun even made a brief appearance as the roads became more rural north of Lancaster.
The stage also afforded the answer to the old question, "who ate all the pies?" My fellow guests at the Cross Keys in Milnthorpe appeared to have been selected for their size and were amply catered for by the pub's cuisine. It being a Sunday, I was drawn to the roast beef, but my question to the waitress, "How's it cooked?" was met with a blank stare of incomprehension and the response, "Well it's cooked isn't it". Thankfully I didn't betray myself as a total southern poof by asking if it came in its own jus. Dad, meanwhile, got us marked down as real lightweights by asking for his without the giant cartwheel-sized yorkshire pudding. "But you'll have hardly anything to eat, sweetheart," said the waitress as she brought half a very well done cow, 700 roast potatoes and a bucket of veg. I did still find room for a sticky toffee pudding in my efforts to ingratiate myself with the locals.
78 miles, 16.2 mph
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