OH FUCK! No Place to Go!
Cars. Hedges. A drop-off.
If you remember from the last post, the road situation was complicated. I jammed on the brakes to stop, and when I put my foot down, there was no ground. Too much camber. We were going to low-side downhill.
And down we went.
We hit the ground with 270 kilos of bike and gear crashing right on top of us—both of our right legs pinned underneath. My recently replaced hip ended up at the bottom of the pile.
I immediately shut off the bike and looked at Melanie.
“Are you okay? Can you move?”
Both of our right legs were trapped beneath what felt like a million pounds of motorcycle. Our heavy boots were pinned, but thankfully they were also protecting our feet and lower legs.
The guy who had waved us through appeared as I struggled to lift the weight of our Suzuki V-Strom 650 and free us. Because the bike was lying downhill on top of us, it felt twice as heavy. He grabbed and pulled.
Nothing.
Then another guy joined in. Together they managed to lift it just enough for me to get my free left leg onto the seat and shove the bike upright. I jumped up, ran to the other side, and dropped the kickstand.
By then, Melanie was on her feet.
We both seemed okay, but that was probably the adrenaline doing what adrenaline does best.
Cars were facing each other in three different directions. About a hundred feet farther down the closed road was a car park. A few drivers backed their vehicles down the hill, giving me enough room to ride the bike down there.
Once parked, I just sat on the bike for a moment, trying to assess the damage. By then, Melanie had joined me, along with several others. That’s when we learned just how much of a clusterfuck the road closure really was. We also spotted the sign hidden in the bushes that would have been useful five minutes earlier.
When I finally got off the bike, I realized I could barely stand.
Knowing we still had miles to go, I didn’t want to take off my boot. My imagination was convinced there was blood pooling inside it. We only had about thirty minutes left to ride. Then we could stop and assess the damage.
The bike looked surprisingly good. Just a loose mirror. Good enough.
Back on the bike and onward to our haunted destination: The Black Bull.
We rolled into the village of Haworth and climbed the steep hill into the heart of the old town. I stopped the bike and climbed off. I only wanted to park once, and I wanted to get it right.
Melanie headed inside and was greeted by Amanda. She was incredibly kind and showed us where to park the bike.
Then she offered us a beer and a cider.
Her advice was simple: relax and come down from the excitement of the last hour. Done.
The Black Bull Haworth is owned by our friend Mark, a fellow motorcycle traveler. We’d been trying to meet up with him for quite a while, but this wasn’t going to be the time either. He was off leading a motorcycle tour in Uganda. Even so, he graciously invited us to stay at his haunted hotel.
The Black Bull has been featured by the BBC as one of the most haunted hotels in the UK. The view from our room looked out over tombstones, some close enough to feel within arm’s reach. They climbed the hillside on uneven slate paths toward another graveyard that looked like something straight out of Disney’s Haunted Mansion.
The church stood just beyond the gate. An iron fence bordered the walkway, and the gate hung at an angle, its hinges worn from centuries of use.
It was exactly the kind of place motorcycle travelers hope to stumble upon.
Back in the room, I finally worked up the courage to remove my boot. I expected the worst while hoping for the best. No blood. No bones sticking out. Good sign.
It hurt like hell, but I could walk. We took a short stroll through the cemetery. It looked as though it had been lifted directly from a haunted movie set. Tombstones covered in poems and epitaphs leaned at eerie angles. Moss and age had claimed much of the stonework.
Everything was perfectly prepared for a haunted night.
We wandered through the spectacular old church before finding our way to a pub and then a bookstore. There’s something special about old, musty-smelling bookstores. I can spend hours browsing dusty shelves, searching for hidden treasures.
We ended up spending a wonderful couple of days at the hotel. They kindly let us stay an extra night so my leg could recover. The stay was made even better by Dawn, who worked behind the bar. She was an absolute delight and genuinely loved working there. Mel and Dawn hit it off immediately and are now friends on Facebook. Have fun in Thailand, Dawn.
After a couple of days of rest, I felt ready to move on. We headed north through the Yorkshire Dales National Park. The scenery was spectacular—rolling hills, endless views, and wide single-track roads stretching toward the horizon. Along the way, we stopped at the Tan Hill Inn, Britain’s highest pub, sitting at 1,732 feet above sea level.
By then, my leg was beginning to complain again, so we pointed the bike north toward a hotel just across the border in Scotland.
That’s probably enough for now. I’ll continue the saga of my injured leg and Melanie’s damaged finger in the next installment.
Spoiler alert: nothing is broken.
Cheers,
2WANDRRs
2WANDRRs 
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