10 Nov. Sunshine, showers and dirty lanes
The secret to getting out of the house early is to pack the bike - and the sandwiches - the evening before. I realise this is obvious but I have just come to it. It means 30 minutes after eye opening, I am front door opening and confident I have everything I need. The forecast is full sun but it rains as I hustle along the first lane, mud spraying from the gaps in the mudguards. Far to the west blue sky is visible so I put up with damp sleeves and shoulders for the first half hour. I tell myself to take it slowly, enjoy the ride. I do not seem to have regained the stamina I had in the lockdown summer. I hope this is not ageing. I turn my mind away from such thoughts, convince myself I have the body of a 20 year old but the body is not convinced. So grind, puff, grind, puff up the hill then.
Down the other side through beech woods, copper bright in the slanting November light, leaves spinning in my wake and on through sleepy Coombe, corona-quiet as if a pandemic has kept everyone indoors. St Stephen arrives and departs beneath my turning wheels and its puff, grind, puff, grind up the long hill over the Cornish Alps. I am in the South Wales valleys now, rows of terraced houses, broken vehicles, abandoned industrial buildings, fenced off areas with dire warnings about trespassing that hang forlornly next to gaping holes in the mesh. Only this part of Cornwall is actually poorer than the Welsh valleys. No more EU funding either for us although the Prime Minister has made one of his special promises that HM Government will make up the shortfall. Maybe.
Along a high ridge and to my left I can see across the wide valley to Castle Dinas, an Iron Age fort that still dominates the whole region although it has no impact on the traffic on the A30 far below it, long lines of busy ants taking stuff from one place to another. The light is dramatic, huge black clouds boiling up from the west but the sun is still in the clear although low in the sky. Pillars of light lie across the hills and the air sparkles where light rain is falling in the distance.
Mainly downhill from here for miles, dropping into the hidden, wood lined valleys south of the river Camel, streams running alongside the road moving the rain water down to the sea. I pass old granite houses sinking slowly back into the ground from which they emerged. I read recently that many of the farms in Cornwall are built on the remains of Iron Age and Bronze Age farms; those granite walled fields are older than the pyramids, the foundations of the houses have been in place almost since the Ice Age ended.
Now comes ten miles of the Camel Trail and it is particularly gritty and puddled today and quite busy with people walking. I slow down to pass, weaving carefully between groups, waving my thanks. It feels a long way to Padstow at this stop go pace and even the views across the Camel estuary are insufficient to distract me from just wanting to get this bit done.
On the Camel Trail looking across to Padstow, still three miles away.
Then it's a saw edge journey, across the grain of the land, up, down, up, down. Quiet lanes that twist and double back on themselves, grass growing up the centre line, mud now plastering my legs, puddles that almost reach the bottom bracket. Dirty lanes. Mud washed, leaf filled, greasy and damp.
The Wahoo says go down here and so I do.
I pop out of rurality and endless fields and small woods into the industrial village of Indian Queens, a long straggling line of warehouses, small factories and car workshops all attracted by the proximity of the A30, Cornwall's motorway. It has two lanes on each side and a MacDonalds drive-thru! On, on, legs spinning and ignoring the scrape of tyres under the mud caked mudguards. I know this next section well and the road rolls beneath me, each hill slowing me more until the final hill requires an all out assault by my aching legs.
Home arrives after five hours on the bike The dirty bike can wait for it's clean. I make a protein shake first as I have eaten too little today and am beginning to tremble, standing in the kitchen with my overshoes rolled up to my calves and a debris trail of mud around me. The cat opens one eye and looks disapproving. I promise the cat I will clean the floor as well as the bike later on. These rides are not getting any easier.