16 April. A trip to the seaside
Wrestling with your conscience is a fools game. You never win. So many cycle chatters on this forum are limiting themselves to short circuits near to home and I don't want to do that even though my conscience says I must. I advance the argument that the lanes are deserted, I rarely even see another cyclist and that I have already fallen off my step ladder twice doing DIY. Plus some cuts and burns. Cycling feels safer than being at home where I get bored too easily and start projects beyond my capability, then have to phone my father in law for advice. He was a master craftsman and builder and my wife feels all men should have the same skills as her father. I think all daughters feel that way about their fathers. I am a disappointment to her. My brother is the same as me and has started his own craft guild- he calls it the Order of the Black Thumb.
Today I wanted to get to see the north coast and plotted a route that seemed flat enough on the map but turned out to have more wrinkles, steep ramps and drops than I imagined. The sun was warm on my back though and all the way to Crantock I felt like a cycling God hitting 20 or 25mph or even more in places, gaining Top 10 places on Strava segments and wondering how I managed to improve so fast.
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What goes down must inevitably go up .....
Crantock was lovely if quiet. The Bowgie Inn would normally be packed on a day like today. It has sweeping views across the bay. The sea was reflecting back the blueness of sky, turning turquoise near to shore, green where the light caught the rising waves. The car park was closed down, the Inn empty of life but the surf was amazing. Just four guys out in over head high, long period surf. Clean, green Atlantic swells rolling in every fifteen seconds. Waves for locals. No lifeguards on duty and a fierce rip running along the far side of the beach.
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Leaving Crantock I discovered my godlike power had left me. I was having to push down hard even to go downhill and into the large cogs for the 2% slope that followed. The wind. I had not felt it coming here but it had felt me, pushing me along like electricity for my legs. Returning it was now an animate force, playing with me, jumping out of the gaps in the hedgerows to knock me over, blowing hardest on the steepest slopes. The return trip was on new (to me) lanes. I kept hoping for downhills but seemed only to be going up. Resolutely into the face of the wind. There is nothing to do but be philosophical. It is good resistance training.
The last few miles the hedges were higher and the lanes more sunken and the wind lost me, found me for a while then lost me. I made progress. Home came nearer. More walkers on the lanes and then a dilemma. A cyclist in front of me and I am catching up . I try to stay 20 metres behind but he keeps slowing. I can't overtake. The lane is narrow, bends, twists up and down and there are families and prams and small children on bikes. I stop and wait for as long as I can manage and then catch him up again. He stops. I see my opportunity. If anyone reading this was on that lane today, I apologise for roaring past, breath held so I couldn't say anything or take a hand of the bars to wave. Apologies. I am still learning the etiquette for cycling in the plague and I normally never see anyone else.
So another 50k ride. It seems like the right distance for me, but maybe not right for everyone. I guess we all have to make our own choices based on a risk assessment. I know I am safer on a bike than with a power tool in my hand.
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