‘More Woodstock than Wacky Races’

Crap. I appear to be in the middle of a big cloud of yellow dust. Around me, a gigantic swarm of motorcycles blare their exhausts at me like the world’s worst orchestra. Such is the dust I can’t actually see any of them, at least not most of the time. Once every so often the ghostly silhouette of another rider materialises inches away, just to be instantly swallowed up by the sandy cloud again. 

If I stray from my path I’m going to get caught in the stampede and the results aren’t going to be pretty, so I plough on, throttle pinned. Sometimes I wonder if my imagination is playing tricks on me – surely that couldn’t be a Harley-Davidson? Were there two people on that motorbike?

It was supposed to be a non-competitive, chilled-out ride along the six-mile course that surrounds the grounds of the beautiful Grimsthorpe Castle, but now it is motorcycle mayhem. At first, the trail was wide and made up of compacted dust; I thought I was in for a bit of a scenic tour.