Hull to Goathland and beyond.

Man down, a surprise return and Pimms.

It's so good to be back on the bike. It's genuinely a better feeling than what I can articulate here. We awake to a beautiful late summer day, where we have a rare commitment-free Saturday.

We are aiming to get on the North Yorkshire Moors, via breakfast out, and anything else that might come along. No real plan or defined route and especially no time restrictions!

For breakfast, we decide to stop at a little village called Bainton. A new cafe has opened, Bainton Stop, which will surely compete with the famous Seaways cafe up the road in Fridaythorpe. It's important to support a new venture and we are pleased to do so.

My longstanding biking friend Paul (Stevo) is also out and about, and is heading towards Saltburn on Sea. After a few messages, we decide to go in tandem to the cafe, have breakfast, and then part ways.

Our intercoms are all connected, and we chat happily until the entrance to Bainton. At this juncture, Paul warily comments that a warning light has come up on the dash of his BMW 1250 GS. Low tyre pressure. It's not a good sign. PSI has reduced by a third.

We pull into the cafe car park and are all quite shocked to see an unwelcome screw protruding angrily out of his rear tyre. I've never seen anything quite like it. How on earth can it have gone into the tyre at such an odd angle? No matter, it has, and his day is over, as he begrudgingly admits, before a sausage or rasher of bacon has been consumed. He has to act quickly and decides to ride to a garage near Driffield to see if he can inflate the tyre a little more before limping back to Hull.

Myself and the Happy Pillion are gutted for Paul and feel somewhat guilty whilst we enjoy a wonderful breakfast without him. At the time of writing, we have no idea how he is getting on.

Onwards and northward, through Thornton-le-Dale. We ride past the endless queue of cars attempting to get into this picturesque town. Some car drivers take an exception to being bypassed so effortlessly by a bike. Almost like they feel its unfair despite it never effecting their own journey or progress. Some cars deliberately make it awkward which, whilst frustrating, is best ignored and not to be reacted to. Albeit tempting to do the complete opposite.

We are now onto the Moors and it's beautiful. Every season gives a different feel to this rugged landscape. No season preferable to the next, each having their own character and charm. I reflect that it really isn't any effort to get here and it makes me wonder why we don't do it more often.

A car of Japanese tourists pull next to us. Out jump five members of, presumably, the same family. Four immediately get their phones out and starting taking photos of the scenery with much admiration. The fifth, the obvious patriach, gets out gingerly then simply looked and smiled at our bike, for what seemed like an awkward length of time. I wondered if he was somehow related to Soichiro Honda, the founder of Honda Motorcycles. Or perhaps he just had understandable pride of Japanese engineering. Good man, I liked him.

I still keep wondering how Paul is getting on, again feeling a little guilty as we now happily demolish an ice cream whilst overlooking the heather clad landscape. I check my phone to see if he has messaged, but there isn't any reception, which in truth, is a welcome consequence of our remote positioning.

We arrive shortly after into Goathland, a well-known moorland town made famous by the 90s TV show, Heartbeat. The Happy Pillion wanders off, quite typically, and I get into conversation with a gentleman who singlehandedly built his 1930s Norton motorcycle. It's an engineering marvel, and he explains in much detail every element of the build. His engineering brain and ability remind me of my brother Jerry, as also does his obvious eccentricity. His creation is worthy of noting below.

I suddenly get a tap on my shoulder. I turn around and it's Paul!

I am astonished. He's been back to Hull, mended his puncture and went straight back out again. He was passing through Goathland and saw our bike. I am so surprised and pleased, that I punch him, a little harder than expected, in the chest. More out of the necessity to check if he was actually there than anything else. Fair play to him for showing great determination in plowing on. Very British!

We part ways again, tyre pressures intact, and he heads north and we head east to a little town called Sleights and into a garden area with a colonial style cafe. Think Sri Lanka, 1940s.

It's all very civilised and English. Rachel keeps the theme moving along nicely with a refreshing looking Pimms. Pillion privileges. I'm a little envious.

We leave suitably refreshed and head for home via Scarborough and Driffield. It has been a while since we have done a decent ride and we have enjoyed it immensely.

We arrive back at around 5.30pm and feel a real sense of achievement to our day.

There really isn't anything to compete with it.

If you have a bucket list, put it on. You won't regret it.

Until the next time. Ed.