21 January.
South of the Camel
I need to feed the rat. It is gnawing away at me. The sky is blue and the wind light and yes it is cold but not so cold I can't go out and the month is disappearing, days passing, my sand clock running out. The GP this morning said I need to go slowly but I tried that already and it didn't work. So today I am going to feed my rat, my gnawing persistent need for the bike. Madame Crow declines to come and takes the car and I am left with the ancient camper van that has sat on the drive for a month, because I want to go somewhere new. I am tired of the steep climbs out of Truro. Or maybe just tired.
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From from my elevated position on the A30 it is certain that today it will be a 'North coast day' as the high cloud persists over the south of Cornwall but it is clear all the way across the north coast. Nearing Wadebridge I can see in the distance the blueness of the Atlantic and a line of white, where waves are breaking on the Doom Bar.
The Camel Trail in winter is a much lonelier path than when filled with the mayhem of summer: heedless family groups, children wobbling, walkers aggressively striding along the middle of the path.The trail sits in the deep shadow of the valley and is overhung with trees. All the cold air from the last week has been gathering along the valley and it is cold, very cold. My tyres scythe the puddled ice. My lungs hurt with the freezing air and my nose streams a salty contrail as I speed along the path.
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I am heading south on the trail for just a few miles and then will find a small back lane that leads through Wenn and Withiel and passes old four square, green tinged granite farmhouses with grand sweeping views of empty, bright green fields and hills. This is forgotten Cornwall. The lane shows that no one ever comes this way - the tarmac is broken, layers of mud from farm tyres, a central reservation of grass keeping me on my side of the road although the tractors take up all of it. Be careful on the bends, I tell myself after the first near collision.
The initial few miles undulate, lending me the feeling that I am fitter and weller than I will turn out to be. A right turn and suddenly the hill emerges, a near vertical wall of tarmac, 300 feet of 8% with bits of 18%. So OK, not vertical but steep enough for me. I struggle for breath all the way, my remnant lungs are not man enough for this. But a few weeks ago I was better and I will be again. Pause at the top, some jelly babies, shuddering breaths slowly easing. The views are good and the air clean and sharp. It is good to be alive today.
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That was the worst hill and todays ride is relatively flat for Cornwall. Despite this I am slow, even pushing on the flats is only yielding an average of 14mph and I am straight into bottom gear as soon as the road tilts up. I am torn between frustration at my pace and joy at being out. Neither emotion wins - it is just a stalemate that tips one way or another as the gradient changes.
I have a section now on a busy B road. Quarry lorries roar past and then a van with flashing lights. I wonder why. Then over my shoulder I can see a mobile home, one of those that is not mobile unless you have a low loader and it is creeping up on me, the wind blowing all sound the other way. It is a shock to see a house overtake you and I stop to let it pass safely as it needs the full width of the road. With relief after a few miles I can turn off this overly busy B road and then see ahead a 180 degree vista of sea as the north coast appears. Quiet lanes, all NCN approved and blue badged. Easy navigation and the Wahoo chirps and buzzes contentedly. This is like an Enid Blyton illustration of the seaside. Hedged lanes, sudden bends, then a new vista on every corner, a view across fields to the sea and a warming sun. The road drops and climbs but only very timidly as if afraid to upset me too much and I am grateful to it as my weak and flaccid thighs seem unequal to the task today.
Lunch on the beach, although I am careful not to get sand on the gears. Five surfers out, Middle Aged Men In Neoprene which is more acceptable it seems than my lycra. Despite the sun it is cold here with a wind off the sea and I will not linger long.
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One last hill out of Harlyn Bay, holding up a line of VW Transporters driven by MAMINs as they try to get past. I am going as fast as I can boys and I will stop and let you pass as soon as there is a gateway. Padstow is relatively empty, this is the quietest month and I have a fast downhill all the way to Rick Stein's Fish and Chip restaurant and Lobster Farm. Too good and too expensive for me and I roll on knowing I still have a cereal bar in my pocket.
I need another rest. Sit out of the wind and feel the sun. Vitamin D for free. Six flat miles left along the Camel Trail back to Padstow. I can't understand why I feel so tired. But I am, so just get on with it Crow boy. Moaning won't help, show some grit.
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Six flat miles. I should be able to do this at 20mph at least, the Strava record is 24mph and no one races along the trail for Strava points. Empty today, frozen puddles in the cuttings and then sudden sweeping views across the estuary, dotted with waders and mud feeders, white blobs at this distance. It is so clear and the water so blue it could be summer but my fingers assure me it is not. I cannot get above 15mph. I try until my thighs burn, but it is no good.
Wadebridge arrives but the Wahoo solemnly informs me I have only done 48km, sadly lacking, so I go past the campervan and back up the trail until it clicks over onto 50km. The rat demands it.
A drive home and my eyes want to close. The rat is quiet, fed with some cycling. It demands constant stimulation. It used to be climbing, then sea kayaking and surfing and now it is cycling, the last refuge for old men. I read yesterday that the average Audax member is 55 years old, so today I joined AUK. Someone has to do the 50k events. I will try a 100km this month.....but not yet, not yet.
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