Day 8: York to Thirsk: Uphill Battles, Flapjack Miracles, and the Kindness of Strangers

Well, day 8 is officially done and dusted, and so am I. Another 50 km conquered from York to Thirsk, though I swear the roads get hillier! I’ll be honest, I started the morning running on fumes, or more accurately, on yesterday’s lack of food, water (but its all part of it!). York Rugby Club was buzzing when I pulled up: TV cameras, radio people, and the Mayor himself, who, by the way, has now invited Cat and me back for dinner and a city tour. You know you’ve made it when the Mayor offers you tea and regimental introductions.

The send-off was amazing. Families, volunteers, and one brilliant young girl who asked how I got into rugby. She’s 12, obsessed with the game, but can’t find a club that’ll take her until she’s 16. That gap for girls is still such a massive problem, they’re inspired, eager, and then… benched for four years. It’s like saying, “Dream big, but wait until you’re legally allowed to.” When I next speak with the Mayor, I’m definitely raising that. If these kids want to play, the least we can do is give them a pitch to do it on.

Then came the wheel itself, 50 km of pure grit and cake roads. Hills on hills on hills. My leg decided to flare up like a firework, five times, for good measure, but the team was amazing. Paul, Hallie, Theresa, Cat, everyone. They’re the sort of people you’d follow into battle… or at least up another 10 km of rough terrain.

At one point I hit a long stretch of traffic lights, uphill, with a queue of cars behind me. No pressure, right? I’ve never sprinted so hard in my life. I actually got out of breath. Out of breath! That’s how brutal it was. But the motorists were legends: clapping, cheering, thumbs up all round. Yorkshire hospitality at its finest.

Somewhere between the exhaustion and the traffic jams, a random driver hopped out to ask what I was wheeling for, and handed me a £5 donation. Proof that good humans still exist (and that I should probably make “Wheelchair Hustle for Cash” my side gig).

By the time we rolled into Thirsk, I was more flapjack than human. Speaking of which, Hallie’s gluten-free flapjacks deserve their own fan club. Honestly, she could quit her day job and open a bakery tomorrow. They’re the reason I made it to the finish without dissolving into a puddle of pain.

The inn tonight? Absolute dream. After a few dodgy “rustic” stays earlier in the trip, this one is five-star luxury. I even got to eat proper food... Domino’s gluten-free pizza courtesy of Paul and Hallie, who are now officially angels and heroes.

Joel, our cameraman, popped in to film and chat about pain conditions. He’s working on a documentary about the journey, which I didn’t even realise until today! He’s so talented and kind, and we had a proper laugh about how ridiculous our bodies can be. I trust him completely, which is rare when you’re literally baring your scars to a camera.

And, because the day wasn’t quite dramatic enough, I finished it off by slicing my thumb open on a rogue razor cover. There was blood, swearing, and an urgent lesson in first aid improvisation. Paul’s response? “Idiot.” Which, fair. I love Paul. He always makes me laugh, and knows me so well that he always says the right thing at the right time. When your thumb tip is hanging off, I need laughter, and thats what I got!

So here I am, battered, bruised, a little bit bloody, but still smiling. Because every day brings a new hill, a new human moment, and a reminder that stubbornness really is my superpower.

Next stop: Sunderland. Two more to go. Let’s see what chaos tomorrow brings.