Curses to Boreas, Greek god of the north wind. Legend has it he resides in a cave on Mount Haemus. But he spends his summers holidaying in Lincolnshire. Must do. Because he's out there, every single day, blowing a fury, tormenting the mortals. Great for the windmills. Terrible for north-bound cyclists.
I was heading for Skegness on the notoriously lethal A52, the trucks and caravans buffeted about by the wind and coming so close to me I breathed in every time I heard one approaching.
In the distance on a long straight was a speed camera with a neon sign. "66mph. Slow down!" it flashed. Then "58mph. Thank you!" it beamed. "5mph. Thank you!" it flashed up as I approached. I already knew because my GPS told me. And now the whole of the A52 knew. Thank you!
Things got worse when I smashed into a pothole, buckling my back wheel, which made pedalling even harder. That worried me, but the shaven-headed man standing by his white van at the side of the road up ahead staring psychotically at me worried me more. Had he heard me loudly cursing the gods as he'd passed and assumed it was aimed at him? As I neared, he brought his hands from behind his back - a knife? a baseball bat? - and held out a bottle of mineral water. "Keep going," he said, and I almost burst into tears at the sheer kindness of it.
A nice man at Ward & Son bike shop in Skegness took the Ridgeback off for repairs and, with the bike having a bit of TLC, I figured I'd have a bit of the same: mind, body and soul.
I walked along the front, dodging the gangs of mobility scooters. Holidaymakers were tucking into fish and chips and pints of lager at 10am - surely what holidays are all about. Right next to the waltzers, I found Gypsy Lee. She held out my palms.
"I can see that you always tell the truth, even if you think it will offend someone," she said.
"That's true," I said. Even though the truth was the opposite, but I didn't want to offend her.
"Who's Sean?" she said.
"I don't know anybody called Sean," I would have said, if I'd been the man she thought I was.
"Oh, Sean. That's spooky," I said.
"You have to confront him."
"I will," I promised. "I will."
"I can see that transport's very important to you at the moment," she said. "What are you driving?"
"A bicycle," I replied.
"Oh," she said, sounding a little disappointed.
After the reading, Gypsy Lee told me how she was the latest in a long family line to tell fortunes at Skegness, and how she will be the last. Her daughter was a medium, a very good one, but wasn't interested in sitting in a fairground booth all day. "Times have changed. People haven't got the money any more," she said.
With the mind sorted, I went up the coast to Butlins to visit its holistic spa centre. And, yes, you did read that right. Times have indeed changed. My therapist led me past stone Buddhas to a mahogany-lined treatment room complete with piped whale sounds.
"My name is Sian," Sian said.
Sian. Sean! What's in a vowel! I must confront her. "Tell me if this is hurting," she said, massaging my ridiculously tender thighs.
"No, that's great," I grimaced. I was going to see Gypsy Lee for a refund afterwards. And as Sian rubbed the hot coconut oil with mango into my road-jarred shoulders and I drifted into half-sleep, all I could hear were the voices of Janice and Ray, the disgruntled Yorkshire couple from the Catherine Tate Show. "Whale music. Coconut oil. In Skegness! The dirty bastards."
I walked south along the beach. And what a beach! Mile after mile of deserted golden sands and dunes, the blue flags flying proudly, if violently, the chippies and the amusement arcades behind me, nothing and nobody in front of me.
After an hour or so, I reached the national nature reserve of Gibraltar Point, 1,000 acres of salt marsh, shingle ridges and mudflats overlooking the Wash. The sky was immense, stretched, like it had been distorted though a fisheye lens. You see these skies every day in this part of the world, but they still take your breath away, still always make you feel very, very small.
Miles this week: 125. Total miles: 611.
Contacts: visitlincolnshire.com; butlins.com; 0845 070 4754
Get in touch: Do you have any tips for Mike about where to visit? Email him at get.carter@observer.co.uk
