Chuffy
Veteran
- Location
- On the banks of the Exe
Ok then, here goes.
My one and only experience of touring was back in the very late 80s. My ex (soon to become my first ex-wife) decided that we were to go on a cycling tour. As she was a woman of strong mind (but poor judgement) I agreed. We had between us 5 gears. Her on a Raleigh Chiltern, me on a Raleigh Winner. Google these mighty beasts and marvel at our folly. Panniers? Didn't even know what they were. We had a tent strapped to my rack. The sleeping bags and bed rolls were attached via cunning bodgery to various bits of our bikes. Oh and everything else was in rucksacks. The big camping kind. Did I mention that we were going to Cornwall? Lovely lumpy Cornwall. Sunny Cornwall with a profile like a teenagers crumpled Kleenex. Great....
We started off with plans to ride to Yeovil and train from there to Plymouth. We got as far as Sherborne. But that was 30 miles and more than either of us had ever ridden before. Did I mention that we were both in jeans and t-shirts? Oh well, must have slipped my mind. So, there we were in Sherborne waiting for a train. In a pub. Did I mention that she didn't drink and couldn't see why anyone would want to?
We got to the concrete hell that is Plymouth. It hasn't improved much since. I fixed my first ever puncture. Full of manly pride we carried on to some rellies of hers who lived just shy of the Tamar. They gave us beans on toast (and inferior beans at that) and a tin opener. Thanks guys. And so on to our first camp-site. This entailed riding up Landrake Hill. Now, Sarah's bike had three hub gears and weighed more than she did. My bike had three or two working gears (out of five) and with kit weighed about the same. Landrake Hill is long. Long like the pain of a paper cut on your bellend. Long like the humiliating sting of being rejected by spotty Lisa in Class 3b in front of all your mates.
We weren't happy when we reached the campsite but the mosquitoes who lived there were overjoyed and made every effort to make us feel wanted. The eggs that I fried over the feeble glow of the Trangia probably had more protein in them when I finished than they had when I started. We didn't care.
The next day we made it to Polruan and camped again. Once again I spent the evening refilling a hot Trangia with meths so that I could boil a kettle.
Heading down the cliff-face from Polruan to Fowey on a fully laden pig-iron horror I conducted a full and searching examination of the interaction between steel rim and solid brake block. I reached a definite conclusion, that no matter how hard a chap hauled on his suicide levers, he should always ensure that he wore clean pants and had a last will and testament somewhere safe, where it wouldn't get soiled by blood or fear. Although the harbour at the bottom of the cliff-face remained unsullied by man and bike it was touch and go. Pushing my bike up the cliff on the opposite side, the drink bottle, which was full of Coke, blew it's top. So many metaphors for the folly of youth, so little time...
Polperro was awful. Another mad hill and a tiny seaside village heaving with grockles through which we pushed our bikes. The hill going out tested our patience. Or rather, it tested Sarah's. I could just, just about crawl up the hills. Sarah, being wee and riding a scaffolding pole shopper, could not. There was swearing. There was....tetch.
The rest of the tour was conducted in short bursts between train stations and arguments. It ended in a pub (where else?) just south of Salisbury, where Sarah finally gave up. I time-trialled the remaining 30 miles home so as to get a lift arranged for her. I was on a mission and must have been flying, despite being knocked into the verge. If only I'd had a TT bike and a computer. And lights.
We married soon after (I think) and divorced a year later. I should have known better. If your bird can't haul her own sleeping bag up a 33% gradient then she's not worth it. Alternatively I could have just listened to my mother.
My one and only experience of touring was back in the very late 80s. My ex (soon to become my first ex-wife) decided that we were to go on a cycling tour. As she was a woman of strong mind (but poor judgement) I agreed. We had between us 5 gears. Her on a Raleigh Chiltern, me on a Raleigh Winner. Google these mighty beasts and marvel at our folly. Panniers? Didn't even know what they were. We had a tent strapped to my rack. The sleeping bags and bed rolls were attached via cunning bodgery to various bits of our bikes. Oh and everything else was in rucksacks. The big camping kind. Did I mention that we were going to Cornwall? Lovely lumpy Cornwall. Sunny Cornwall with a profile like a teenagers crumpled Kleenex. Great....
We started off with plans to ride to Yeovil and train from there to Plymouth. We got as far as Sherborne. But that was 30 miles and more than either of us had ever ridden before. Did I mention that we were both in jeans and t-shirts? Oh well, must have slipped my mind. So, there we were in Sherborne waiting for a train. In a pub. Did I mention that she didn't drink and couldn't see why anyone would want to?
We got to the concrete hell that is Plymouth. It hasn't improved much since. I fixed my first ever puncture. Full of manly pride we carried on to some rellies of hers who lived just shy of the Tamar. They gave us beans on toast (and inferior beans at that) and a tin opener. Thanks guys. And so on to our first camp-site. This entailed riding up Landrake Hill. Now, Sarah's bike had three hub gears and weighed more than she did. My bike had three or two working gears (out of five) and with kit weighed about the same. Landrake Hill is long. Long like the pain of a paper cut on your bellend. Long like the humiliating sting of being rejected by spotty Lisa in Class 3b in front of all your mates.
We weren't happy when we reached the campsite but the mosquitoes who lived there were overjoyed and made every effort to make us feel wanted. The eggs that I fried over the feeble glow of the Trangia probably had more protein in them when I finished than they had when I started. We didn't care.
The next day we made it to Polruan and camped again. Once again I spent the evening refilling a hot Trangia with meths so that I could boil a kettle.
Heading down the cliff-face from Polruan to Fowey on a fully laden pig-iron horror I conducted a full and searching examination of the interaction between steel rim and solid brake block. I reached a definite conclusion, that no matter how hard a chap hauled on his suicide levers, he should always ensure that he wore clean pants and had a last will and testament somewhere safe, where it wouldn't get soiled by blood or fear. Although the harbour at the bottom of the cliff-face remained unsullied by man and bike it was touch and go. Pushing my bike up the cliff on the opposite side, the drink bottle, which was full of Coke, blew it's top. So many metaphors for the folly of youth, so little time...
Polperro was awful. Another mad hill and a tiny seaside village heaving with grockles through which we pushed our bikes. The hill going out tested our patience. Or rather, it tested Sarah's. I could just, just about crawl up the hills. Sarah, being wee and riding a scaffolding pole shopper, could not. There was swearing. There was....tetch.
The rest of the tour was conducted in short bursts between train stations and arguments. It ended in a pub (where else?) just south of Salisbury, where Sarah finally gave up. I time-trialled the remaining 30 miles home so as to get a lift arranged for her. I was on a mission and must have been flying, despite being knocked into the verge. If only I'd had a TT bike and a computer. And lights.
We married soon after (I think) and divorced a year later. I should have known better. If your bird can't haul her own sleeping bag up a 33% gradient then she's not worth it. Alternatively I could have just listened to my mother.
Chuffy, that was the best belly laugh I've had since me gran fell off her skateboard! I don't care if you've not got another true story to tell - just make one up. Please!!!
