Day 7: The Hills, The Hotel, and the Highs of York

It’s 2 a.m and I’m typing this with exactly the same energy level as my phone battery... 3%. Today was Day 7. York was the destination. My brain is porridge. My arms are noodles. My spirit, however, is still (barely) flickering.

We started late, not “rockstar late,” more “we wrote on the back of the car with paint markers” late. (Paul’s idea, which actually turned out to be great: “There’s a wheelchair in front. Please donate.”) It looked brilliant, but it meant we didn’t roll out until just after 7 a.m. But totally worth it! Then I saw the hill... Yes, I started straight into a hill. Obviously.

And when I say hill, I mean HILL. Twenty-five kilometres of it. Between 10% and 20% gradients. By the top, my soul had left my body somewhere around kilometre 18. My tank wasn’t empty, it had been repossessed.

The next 25 km weren’t exactly kind either. A few downhills, sure, but the roads were so rough I couldn’t even enjoy them without risking an impromptu flying lesson. The tarmac was doing its best impression of rock cake (Cake road!) uneven, unpredictable, and cruelly deceptive. Definitely the hardest day of wheeling I’ve ever had. At one point, I felt so sick I popped 3 anti-nausea tablets and seriously considered whether I’d accidentally signed up for Wheelchair Gladiators: Extreme Edition.

But somehow, miraculously, I made it. Mostly thanks to the team, who were absolute legends as always. And the kindness of strangers. One cyclist actually rode past me on a hill, waited at the top, and clapped me as I arrived. What a hero. You don’t realise how far a simple clap can carry you when your arms are threatening mutiny.

Then came the hotel adventure.

We rolled up to a Premier Inn. Finding parking was like a game of Where’s Wally? — except Wally was a legal parking bay. Paul who is a legend at problem solving, called another branch and discovered they had spaces, so we re-parked and saved the team from hauling my bag of bricks across York. Small mercies.

But check-in? Oh, check-in was a drama. The man at reception had clearly trained at the Basil Fawlty School of Customer Service. “Rooms aren’t ready till after 3,” he said, despite it being well past 2, offering to pay for early chack-in, and me looking like I’d been through a triathlon in a tumble dryer. Thankfully, another staff member (a lovely human) swooped in, saved the day, and got me into a room, bless him.

Quick shower, minimal kit-fixing, one muffin inhaled. Then I found out Chris and Lynn were waiting to meet me, all the way from Laos. I was thrilled... and also slightly dying inside. No rest for the weary. After a comedy of errors involving two near-identical hotels, a rescue mission from Paul, and several wrong turns, we finally met. They were just as lovely as I’d hoped, hugs, chats, and mutual disbelief that this journey is actually happening.

Then, it was quickly into an Uber to the Rugby World Cup event. And wow. York, you beauty. The city is stunning, cobbled streets, ancient walls, and enough charm to make me forget my arms had gone on strike.

At the event, I suddenly found myself surrounded by Very Important Rugby People. CEOs, Mayors, world rugby heads — all somehow aware of what I’ve been doing. (Still no idea how that’s possible; I barely remember my own name at this point.) I even sat next to Margaret Wilkinson, the CEO of ChildFund Australia, who was absolutely lovely. We had a great chat before the ceremony started.

And what a ceremony. Teams marching in, flags waving, World in Union playing, and me, trying not to cry or sneeze or both. Canada walked past (love them), Emily came up and gave me a hug, and then New Zealand strolled in like a burst of sunshine. Fiji’s entrance? The crowd went wild. Pure joy and pride radiating from every one of them.

Then came the twist: the nice man I’d been chatting to turned out to be the Deputy Head of World Rugby. Casual. He gave a speech… and mentioned me. I wanted to slide under the chair. To me, It’s about the players, not me! But it was unbelievably kind, and his words were so lovely. They even played a short video about ChildFund’s work, which made me proud all over again.

Afterwards, things got surreal. Players from multiple teams came up for photos with me. Me! Meanwhile, I was too nervous to ask them for pictures. Imposter syndrome, party of one. But the Fijians, the Kiwis, the Spanish, all so warm, friendly, and genuine. Fiji and New Zealand even sang during the ceremony, and it was goosebumps amazing. Like, professional choir level. Just wow.

By the time we finally left, it was late, and food options were slim. We ended up back at the hotel, where, after Paul lodged a well-deserved complaint about our earlier friend at reception, the service improved dramatically. The kind staff member even washed and dried my gluten-free cutlery separately. I could’ve hugged him. (I didn’t. But I thought about it.)

Dinner was lovely. Paul’s fish and chips came without mushy peas, tragic, I know, he more than earned those peas, but at that point we’d both seen worse. I finally crawled into bed around midnight, promptly forgot to write this blog, and only remembered when I woke up for a 2 a.m. bathroom trip. So here I am.

One hour of sleep ahead. Arms like lead. Heart full.

York, you were brutal and beautiful in equal measure. On to the next.