9 July!
I have been guilty of lackadaisical-ism, laziness and procrastination constantly finding I am too busy to ride a long way until the final day of the month presents an immovable barrier. It is not that I don't enjoy a longer ride because I do, especially afterwards in the manner of a man who has ceased to bang his head against a wall. It is the prospect of pain and nausea and of self doubt and loneliness that makes me seek an alternative way of hurting myself until I can delay no more.
So what is this; a ride accomplished while the date is still in single figures? Time for a second one this month now although my wifely companion and family matriarch may have other views on constantly playing the role of a cycle widow as I disappear at crucial family moments.
The weather was right and last months ride was easier than usual, flatter lanes, a better feeding strategy, a plan to actually stop and rest occasionally instead of ploughing on and pulling 'go longer' bars from my back pocket as I rode. The pedals cannot cease motion. I know not why - perhaps something bad would happen. But last month I tried it and discovered chocolate milk and bananas from village stores, tea and cake from village cafes and the revelation that if you stop and look at the view for more than ten seconds, more and more will reveal itself, hidden details, a relaxation of the freneticism of my own thoughts, shoulders dropping, frown released.
So the memories of that ride inspired this one. I was raring to go. At the last minute a cycling friend said he would like to accompany me too. This was a change. In nineteen consecutive centuries no one I knew had ever wanted to come. I had assumed solitary centuries were the norm. Nine hours of introspective pain management with only your own mind as company. And I know all my own jokes already. And I can guess what I may say next which on a long ride avoiding cars and shops (which is my wont) there is not a lot to say anyway and I have lost the power of speech by the time I am home.
In fact I have been mocked by my cycling companions for my singe minded pursuit of a dubious goal for the last eighteen months, especially in the winter months when any sane pensioner should be indoors on a trainer and not tiptoeing tipsily down gravel strewn lanes in darkness and rain. Do you have some form of OCD they ask to which my unspoken reply is 'probably'.
But there it was. Ian outside Waitrose with a coffee in his hand and an immediate departure trying to keep up with his caffeine inspired sprinting up the first hill.
So where were we going and what was the weather and what did we eat and what did we see? Some form of revelation perhaps? A story told of a ride from beginning to end in a logical way? Time is an illusion and my memories this morning are not linear or organised.
I wanted to go back to Bodmin Moor because I enjoy the emptiness and space, the big skies and the very quiet lanes, the lack of people and cars, the opening horizon as you climb the steep flanks of the moor, this granite intrusion into a coastal county. I love to ride from sea level to the highest hills in Cornwall and survey the monarchs of Bodmin Moor, the stegosaurus ridge of Rough Tor and the armadillo scales of Brown Willy, our highest summit. I am somewhat obsessed by riding here and wanted my new centurion friend to share that with me.
I have discovered two things on this ride. Most people, it seems, on a long ride like to STOP. They like to eat proper food. They dislike crushed malt loaf from a sweaty back pocket. Secondly, some people, and Ian my new centurion is one of them, dislike the concept of 'rough stuff'.
So we rode from Truro to the Fowey river and crossed on a ferry and saw the Daphne du Maurier home, which is an important detail because lunch would be at the Jamaica Inn but that is still a long way ahead of us and there are many miles of uphill to come from here and in the first thirty kilometres we have already done 600m of sweaty hill climbing. I like crossing rivers and going on ferries and today we will cross the Fal (twice), the Fowey (several times) and the Camel which is most of the bigger rivers down here in the far south west tip of Britain although none would be remarkable in another place being small and weedy and often hidden except when bridges cross or in this case a ferry because we next to the sea.
East of the Fowey Cornwall becomes quite Devon-ish which is to say that the hills are more reasonably graded and it is possible to follow ridge lines which give views in all directions and as the effort is less I have time to lift my eyes from the stem where they like to rest on an uphill and view the slowly changing scenery. At this point it is possible to see the sea, a turquoise glint on the horizon, and the St Austell Alps, white boned quarries and spoil heaps. At one point in this ride we are sure we can see Dartmoor too, a purple bruise on the horizon , simmering in the heat.
Did I mention it was hot? Ian has only two tiny bottles and it is necessary to stop and replenish more frequently that I would like as I have two litre bottles weighing me down as I have done this before and know that you need a lot of water. By the time we have spun down from the heights in a breathless, hands off the brake, descent into the madness of summer time Looe, Ian also needs a coffee. We push our bikes through the crowd until we can find an empty table and surrounded by the regional accents of Britain, except for Cornish, we try not to listen to the conversations around us and instead Ian, who was a commercial pilot, explains to me how safe aircraft are which I am disinclined to believe.
And now, I announce, the climbing begins, at which point Ian looks disconcerted. And argues all the way from here at sea level to the top of the moor that we are going the wrong way and that the GPX track I gave him is not pointing the way I am going. My Wahoo and his Garmin are not in the same place at all. We grumble our way up following the course of the Fowey as it descends from the moor faster than we are moving up it.
But I love the moor. Surrounded by fresh air and nothing else. Apart from the scar of the A30 and a distant bee drone of traffic at times as it spilts the moor in two. We actually follow the old A30 at one point which is a single track road now running parallel to the A30 and no wonder no one enjoyed getting here in the olden days crossing the moor on this road which faithfully crosses every contour line to explore each hollow and dip and then climbs up to the next ridge line for a better view.
To get across the A30 is a task. It is fenced and four lanes wide plus a divide made of thick hedge. It is not possible to simply scamper across and we need to find the only moor road that crosses and to do that, as I explain to an incredulous companion, means cycling along a foot path which is no path at all but simply a piece of sheep nibbled moorland and broken drystone walls that will lead to another road that will cross the A30. Ian is unconvinced and points out that his bike and tyres were bred for tarmac as indeed it says on the bike "Specialised Tarmac" but conceding that there is no option we wobble and wheel our bikes across stiles and gates and sheep shoot and rocks until the promised lane does appear.
Only sixty kilometres left now and slowly they go. More plunging dark lanes through the cloaking woodlands until we emerge like two explorers, weather beaten and exhausted onto the flatlands of the Camel valley. Not that flat it appears. But no matter because we both know the way home from here and it is simply a matter of pedalling on and ignoring the insistent complaint from where the saddle pinches my bottom, but not in a flirtatious way.
And so another ride is done and I do not think Ian will come again and that is both sad because his company made the ride easier as it stopped me thinking my own gloomy thoughts about how much further is it but also I quite like the solitude and introspection of a long ride alone too.
This morning I am wondering about a second one this month. Procrastination and delay will scupper that.
