We're all on a bit of a go slow this morning shuffling around like bums basking under searing Spanish heat. And rightly so. After tackling a monumental climb yesterday (and some of us tackling two by dint of taking a wrong turning) we deserve a bit of mañana time. OK at least luego time. So the hard bit's done and we expect a fast-ish day with a lot of flat or slightly down hill sections. While getting the bags and bikes together I noticed I'd picked up a flat on my back wheel. With no messing Marty, with the forearms and fingers of Popeye, plied off the rubber wheel and swapped the innertube out within 10 minutes. And off we set waving bye to our loved ones (the superb Staindrop HQ Team) and rolled up and out of the country estate we had the pleasure of staying in.

As we hit the main road we hit our first mile of climbing only to arrive in the middle of some kind of organised road race. Guys and gals were whizzing past us at intervals with numbered stickers back and front, aero dynamic time-trial hats and futuristic wheels which sounded like circles of plywood rolling on the roads and were just as thin. As we pulled into Cockfield I noticed that my bike was bumping along as though the road was corrugated and a quick inspection revealed the quick inner tube swap of that morning had left the tyre beading out of place and was bulging. A quick deflate and reinflate and we were on our merry way on a gently undulating patchwork of fields discussing the virtues of Buddhism, keeping dry and genuinely feeling zippy. Marty points out a hill in the distance disected by a rapier straight road that appears to climb vertically.
"That's where we're going," he says.

"Oh yeah," I reply. I don't believe him. It doesn't look like we're heading that way and I can't remember seeing any super steep climbs on the profile of the day. 10 minutes later a light drizzle forces a pit-stop to put our jackets on and that hill and that road are now moments away. 10 minutes later and we're all gasping for air having passed a 12% sign.

"That was a bit of a slog," Marty says between breaths.

The crowning achievement of the aptly named Bitchburn climb, which is one of those which starts steep and then gets even steeper half-way up, is that we all made it without pushing. Top marks to Nichola in particular.

Shortly after and we join the main spur of local cycle route 20 heading north-east towards Durham on a disused rail-line. The surface is in good condition and we bomb along at breakneck speed between the trees, bushes and houses as the old trains must have done in the past. It's a hoot and dog-walkers, family cyclists and runners are making the most of it with us. Just north of Langley Moor you enter a wooded area which steeply crosses the river Deerness and then takes you west for about half a mile before turning back on itself. So don't worry if you feel you're going the wrong way.

When you come into the outskirts of Durham you'll approach some traffic lights at a T-Junction. The official cycle routes (20 and/or 14) do their best to divert you on the safest possible route on the pavements but it is far simpler to stay on the Tollhouse Road, turn right onto the busy road and then take the second left about 50 metres down the road onto St Monica Grove. Navigating through Durham is tricky but the route is signed and if you head downhill and go on the pedestrianised sections you'll stay on track.

On our way into Durham the rain has been steadily increasing and as we freewheel across Silver Street bridge under Durham Castle we take the opportunity to have some lunch and wait for the rain to pass. The lunch is excellent but the rain is going nowhere. We brace ourselves, hop back onto wet leather seats and leave Durham by the river Wear with the tower of Durham cathedral in the background. When we hit the main A181 road the team decide to take the busier direct route and stick on the A181 rather than go on signed route 20/14. The rain is still falling and as I'm pedalling alon it suddenly occurs to me that towns and villages with "High" or "Hill" in their names are high or on hills. I know it's obvious but so is gravity, and it took great minds to notice that. So Sherburn Hill is sufficiently steep to force Nichola and Stefano to take a wee breather.

"Don't worry Steve," I say. "There's a pub down the road and we can have a quick coffee and dry out." Said pub is the Plough Inn at Haswell and as we approach it's clear that if it ever saw happy days they are now long past. So we do the best we can and line up for a pee behind the laylandi then tuck into the emergency Mars Bars that will take us the final 6 miles to the sea.

After Haswell we join National Cycle Route 1 along a track peppered with puddled divots which we weave our way through. The land here is a lot more desolate and an empty road leads nowhere into the scrub like some golden plan to develop the area started and then abruptly stopped. The empty road, which is closed to cars, is our advantage and we race along it taking up its entire width. The rain still falls and we decide to stick to the wide pavement into Seaham and skip more puddly potholes on NCR1. It is not without a huge amount of joy that floating through the thick rain is another band of grey that we know is the sea. It's all downhill to Seaham and we pass the docks, the shops and promenade for an eternity on our own two wheels powered by our own two legs. The same wheels and legs that make it onto the sandy pebbled shore that is as wet and windswept as the seven of us. The same seven that left St Bees two days before to cycle the 150 miles across the earth of England. Coast to coast. Sea to sea.