We rode on a fair mixture of surfaces as we weaved around the dramatic Northumbrian coastline, bathed in the gloom of an overcast, cloudy morning after a sunlit start. About the only thing we managed to avoid was sand, somehow. Only minutes into the ride, at said right hand turn, dozy Terry almost managed to spread himself all over the path when the experimental PAIR of FRONT Michelin Wildgripper tyres decided they weren't created for tight gravel turns, or at least not when paired with unfamiliar clipless pedals. And only seconds later he raised hoots of laughter and derision from those following when his chain slipped about six inches, throwing him over the front of the Barracuda and only being saved by forward momentum that rocked him back onto the saddle again. Ouch, that hurt somewhere below waist level. We'd only just left the initial stretch of gravel coastal path when the troop was halted by yells from behind. Looking back we saw Jason in the foreground with his bike inverted, and a few hundred metres further back, Gavin with his Australian Trek. It turned out that Jay's front brake was binding hard (familiar?) and Gav had a puncture.

the arrow shows Gavin's inverted bike in the background

We were soon on the way behind Gavin again headed for the border, and joined after five or six miles by a local on his way back to Berwick. Gavin spent half an hour picking the lad's brains for new routes to ride. We had a couple of short stops for breathers and on arriving on the cliff top at Spittal we wiled away a few minutes watching a beach race (runners). Then we tootled down into the town looking for a chippy or such like. We found one easily, but the forward party weren't inside long before deciding the local fayre was a bit pricey, so instead, we crossed the old road bridge into Berwick and sat on a couple of benches watching a hovercraft running up and down the Tweed between the bridges while noshing on our backpack contents.

By now, Jason had just about shaken off last night's swilling session and overcome the lethargy it always leaves him with (is he alone here?) and just as well, as we were now headed off along the northern edge of the River Tweed with its dodgy ledge ready to catch any wayward cyclist who turns crystals green. At the end of the riverside plinth the bridleway turns into Reivermaterial, in other words, clarts. It also rises steeply away from the water's edge and I think we all had to dismount to get to the top, although it was only a hundred metres or less. terry was bringing up the rear after watering the plants and it was here that once again the evil combination of clipless pedals and skinny, rock-hard tyres contrived to down him on a pair of off-camber wooden-edged step-ups. (In my defence, it was also covered in leaves and mud after the passage of the other nine riders).

here's the Gollum's mudbath - he was the only idiot prepared to risk it today

We'd criss-crossed the A1 a few times by now, and similarly the East Coast railway line. We'd also just hauled ourselves up the side of a field on yet another vanishing bridleway, egged on by Gavin who insisted on his citizens rights. After passing through Unthank (where no-one thanked us) on dreaded tarmac there followed a bit of a gentle up-slope grind southwards then a decent freewheeling bit to the crossroads at Oxford Farm. Someone suggested going in to their tea shop for a long-awaited cuppa, so we trolled into the yard and parked the bikes in several heaps outside their conservatory, inside which we could see people enjoying an afternoon meal. Problem was, this was no ordinary conservatory - it was a conservatoire. With Toires inside it. I may have spilt that wrang. What I meant was twa*s. Why? First Tom, then Jason had entered the establishment to verify the suitability of it to grace our presence. And they'd both been told it would be "40 minutes" before we could get even a cuppa! In other words, "naff off, biker scum". Now you could understand someone telling Tom to do that, anyone would, but freshly-sobered Jay? So, being simple country folk, we naffed off after accidentally slashing a few BMW and Merc tyres and spitting on the car park. No, spitting. I spalt thet reet.

We had to wait at yet another level crossing for a big fast metal thing yet again, which left us on the A1 at Cheswick where we crossed back to our side and headed towards Holy Island again. Gavin managed to find some more rough ground to ride on, and although the sky had been threatening to drop something at odd times, it hadn't yet. Our Ride leader fixed that, however, managing to soak us all on the final stretch of disused road where it was impossible to miss the giant puddles.   And we were at yet another level crossing, although we got straight over this one. That only left a straight, flat drag back to the causeway.

Almost home: My computer, which is probably no longer super-accurate after switching tyres (or I would be surprised if it was!) said 25.4 miles, 23mph max, on bike time 3hrs 2.5 mins, average speed 8.3.

I'm trying to complete the route from my GPS after it's batteries died, so have a look back here for that sometime. I may also update the details above if I can remember any more later.

Bike2Work        Another shot of the Isle

 Keep watching and if you fancy a ride out with us, drop us a line here: bailout@midaircrisis.org.uk