23 November. Back lanes on a damp Saturday afternoon
Yesterday evening I read about WAWA - the Wild Atlantic Way Audax - that is longer than the London-Edinburgh-London and follows the wave bashed, wind lashed west coast of Ireland for over 2000km. The descriptions written by riders are of a hallucinogenic journey, a ride of exhaustion and tears, broken bikes and broken bodies. Last night I dreamt I was cycling along the Atlantic coast, the bike rolled effortlessly as I pedalled on with determination. This morning I am exhausted by my dream, my legs hurt and the rain on the windows convinces me not to even try to go out.
But now it's 2pm. Watery sunlight, blue in the sky. Pirate FM is full of warnings about flooded lanes. Go or stay. I haven't been out for two weeks. Go or stay.....best not to think too much, just pull on some gear and get the bike out. Madame Crow asks where am I going, glancing up from her work, hunched over her laptop. I don't know. Overshoes on. Lights on, flashing a message to drivers - please don't run me down.
It is slushy on the lane from home. Mud from the fields has washed onto the road and stuck there between the deep brown puddles. Better in Truro though and downhill too until the NCN route past Idless Woods, deep in the gloom of overhanging oaks, a sunken lane, a sinking spirit as the road rears up. My breathing is desperate, lungs scraping at the air, searching for oxygen. I want to stop and rest but won't, stubborn, chest heaving, eyes on the road and not searching for the horizon line at the top of the hill. More back lanes, sinking down into the mud, small streams rolling down hill with me.
The St Freda climb, 8% average, is almost too much. I am wobbling, conscious of the traffic behind, throat raw, nose streaming. Then a fast down hill and into Zelah. Only I didn't mean to go to Zelah. I have missed the turn again. But I know there is a way out of Zelah across a short section of field that connects to a back lane and the road I meant to be on. I cycle along but I cannot remember the gateway I am looking for. I am on the A30 now. Not somewhere I want to be, too busy, too dangerous, my little blinking red light will not make these lorries slow down.
Up the hill and back the way I came until I see the lane I missed. It's uphill. How did I ever think I might do an Audax one day? Ten miles down and I am counting the hills left between me and home. On, on, spinning the pedals, past the mossed, green stained church at St Allen, isolated on a road to nowhere, empty. Once this area must have been full of people but today I can only hear the distant crackle of gunfire as hunters slaughter pheasants.
Reaching the open plateau above Trispen, the sun is out between fast retreating clouds, sending long shadows across the fields. I can see the St Austell 'Alps' way to the east, the china clay stained hills resemble snow, now glowing pink as the setting sun lights them up. My spirits are rising, the hills have eased.
From here it is mainly downhill to Tresillian and then the only flat road of the afternoon as I race the traffic through the village, the gathering gloom chasing me from behind. One final hill, not fast but not slow and home along the flooded lanes.
Not yet ready for an Audax but it is good to be on the bike again. A hot shower revives. Madame has made flapjacks. I wonder if the spring will let me go further.....I can dream.