footloose crow
Veteran
- Location
- Cornwall. UK
17 Nov. Catch the ferry to St Mawes
I only have one cycling friend. This is due to my laziness and the (to me) unreasonable hour at which local clubs want to start rides. Every now and then the one cycling friend feels sorry for me doing long solitary rides along muddy lanes and texts me to suggest a ride. I don't mind riding alone - no pressure to go faster or slower or worry about the number of 'hedge-loo stops' or to be up at a certain time to do a particular route. Sometimes though it is good when someone else chooses the destination. I also liked the idea of the distraction of conversation when going uphill. Stephen talks; I listen. He talks continuously as though he were making no real effort to cycle up a long and steep hill and it may well be the case that he isn't. I am.
So when the text arrived, "Fancy catching the King Harry Ferry for coffee in St Mawes tomorrow?" it certainly seemed like a good way to tackle a hill I have been avoiding for a year. For those who know the King Harry Ferry will be aware there is a steep drop on both sides of it but the longest and steepest side zig zags up the south bank for 250 vertical feet at an average 9%. Not an Alpine hill or even a long hill but one I have been ignoring since first sliding down it on a wet November day last year. It was on the 'one day perhaps but not today' list.
Meeting up by the Park n Ride in Truro and heading off at an indecently fast pace in a blur of Castelli and flashing lights I wonder if he will slow down in a bit. However, I am determined not to lose Stephen's wheel whilst heading up the long hill out of Truro but draw the line on answering his questions as well.
'You are very quiet' he admonishes at the top.
"Can't.... breathe... and... pedal....and...talk' I wheeze asthmatically.
We push on downhill now, descending too quickly at a pace that makes my collarbone nervous, back to the height we were at the beginning of the day and now in front of us is a long Cat 3 hill. Snakes and ladders cycling in Cornwall.
'Start slowly' he says. And I watch him vanishing into the distance again, a single red light flashing through the drizzle, slowly fading into the gloom. I follow, clicking down the gears, disappointed when there are no more. The top arrives as it always does if you just keep spinning.
The route goes 'Cornish level' (just normal up and down) now as we spin along the road and for the first time I can speak and pedal. The trees are bare of leaves and drip on me, leaves have soaked into a mulch across the road and the drizzle intensifies for a while. I am enjoying this. We pass Trellisick gardens where the camellias and azaleas are still hiding and the paths are ankle deep in mud. This is the wrong month to visit Cornwall but there is a queue for the car park.
A fast descent from here and the river opens in front of us, a quarter mile of angry little waves, the white horses looking grey in this low November light. It has at least stopped drizzling. A few cars join us on the ferry. I remember in the last lock down crossing on this ferry as the only passenger. Just me and my bike. Fifty pence they earned on that crossing.
The bikes chat to each other.
Stephen contemplates how slow I might be on the next hill - and how he will avoid boredom or just falling over due to lack of movement.
I don't have any photos of the hill that came next. I didn't stop. It was fine. I started slow and in the right gear and just spinning and breathing and Stephen didn't ask me any questions. So I could have done this hill at any time. It is just a hill. I built it up a bit too much in my mind. Who hasn't done this at some point and then found that there was nothing to fear but the fear itself? At the top Stephen beams at me as if I were his best pupil who has just answered the hardest question ever. 'Not so bad eh?' he asks as he clips in and sets off again.
The next few miles to St Mawes go nicely and within thirty minutes of leaving the ferry we are chasing each other down the long downhill bends into the village, the road empty and smooth. The houses here are huge 1930s villas mixed in with modern glass and steel and built into the hillside so each has a view across the Percuil river and beyond to the Atlantic. They are occupied by retired admirals mainly, although captains of industry are also welcome. In the bay is a solitary anchored yacht tugging on its chain, bow dipping into the bigger seas running in with the now rather strong westerly blowing off the sea, tossing spray into the air as it throws it's head up, then dipping down into the next wave. That yacht is worth more than my house and I hope the anchor is securely dug in.
Stephen knows a place to get coffee. Of course he does. He seems to know a place to get coffee anywhere we go. We queue obediently and sit outside where I shiver in the cold and Stephen scolds me for not using gel cleaner. 'I am wearing gloves!' I protest and get a lecture on the proper use of PPE (and how Castelli cycling gloves are not proper PPE). It is too cold to linger long.
At this point it appears the bikes have fallen out with each other and are not talking.
'There may be some hills now' says Stephen enigmatically as we cycle past the harbour, clicking through the gears as the full force of the wind hits us. And there are hills, starting with a steep hairpin bend by the Tudor fort that guards the entrance to the Carrick Roads, bronze cannons still pointing out to sea in case of French fishing boats attempting to enter next year. We are still ready for the French and Spanish pirates here. The English Heritage flag is ramrod straight in the wind and the car park is forlorn and empty. Hopefully no foreign boats will attempt entry today as I don't think anyone is in the fort.
More hills as we head back towards Truro but the wind is behind us now and progress is rapid. I can see I am doing 20mph along here and it feels good to be pushed by the wind and by the sight of another bike in front of me that I have to keep up with. I don't have time to think about feeling tired and I am re-discovering the well known truth that cycling together is faster and easier than cycling alone.
We stop for chats. About people we know and places we have been and what things the government could do to make life better for everyone and how easy that would be and why we can see it but no one else and slowly we create a better world where old blokes make decisions whilst cycling. We talk about Audax and long rides and places we might go one day on a bike and the more we talk, the longer the rides become. We part ways in Probus as Stephen heads east into St Austell to talk to the bike shop about new tyres and I turn back into the wind for the last five miles home.
We agree to do this again and then with a click of pedals he is off, vanishing into the gloom, red light flashing, legs spinning tirelessly, another thirty miles ahead of him yet. I suddenly feel quite lonely.
I only have one cycling friend. This is due to my laziness and the (to me) unreasonable hour at which local clubs want to start rides. Every now and then the one cycling friend feels sorry for me doing long solitary rides along muddy lanes and texts me to suggest a ride. I don't mind riding alone - no pressure to go faster or slower or worry about the number of 'hedge-loo stops' or to be up at a certain time to do a particular route. Sometimes though it is good when someone else chooses the destination. I also liked the idea of the distraction of conversation when going uphill. Stephen talks; I listen. He talks continuously as though he were making no real effort to cycle up a long and steep hill and it may well be the case that he isn't. I am.
So when the text arrived, "Fancy catching the King Harry Ferry for coffee in St Mawes tomorrow?" it certainly seemed like a good way to tackle a hill I have been avoiding for a year. For those who know the King Harry Ferry will be aware there is a steep drop on both sides of it but the longest and steepest side zig zags up the south bank for 250 vertical feet at an average 9%. Not an Alpine hill or even a long hill but one I have been ignoring since first sliding down it on a wet November day last year. It was on the 'one day perhaps but not today' list.
Meeting up by the Park n Ride in Truro and heading off at an indecently fast pace in a blur of Castelli and flashing lights I wonder if he will slow down in a bit. However, I am determined not to lose Stephen's wheel whilst heading up the long hill out of Truro but draw the line on answering his questions as well.
'You are very quiet' he admonishes at the top.
"Can't.... breathe... and... pedal....and...talk' I wheeze asthmatically.
We push on downhill now, descending too quickly at a pace that makes my collarbone nervous, back to the height we were at the beginning of the day and now in front of us is a long Cat 3 hill. Snakes and ladders cycling in Cornwall.
'Start slowly' he says. And I watch him vanishing into the distance again, a single red light flashing through the drizzle, slowly fading into the gloom. I follow, clicking down the gears, disappointed when there are no more. The top arrives as it always does if you just keep spinning.
The route goes 'Cornish level' (just normal up and down) now as we spin along the road and for the first time I can speak and pedal. The trees are bare of leaves and drip on me, leaves have soaked into a mulch across the road and the drizzle intensifies for a while. I am enjoying this. We pass Trellisick gardens where the camellias and azaleas are still hiding and the paths are ankle deep in mud. This is the wrong month to visit Cornwall but there is a queue for the car park.
A fast descent from here and the river opens in front of us, a quarter mile of angry little waves, the white horses looking grey in this low November light. It has at least stopped drizzling. A few cars join us on the ferry. I remember in the last lock down crossing on this ferry as the only passenger. Just me and my bike. Fifty pence they earned on that crossing.
The bikes chat to each other.
Stephen contemplates how slow I might be on the next hill - and how he will avoid boredom or just falling over due to lack of movement.
I don't have any photos of the hill that came next. I didn't stop. It was fine. I started slow and in the right gear and just spinning and breathing and Stephen didn't ask me any questions. So I could have done this hill at any time. It is just a hill. I built it up a bit too much in my mind. Who hasn't done this at some point and then found that there was nothing to fear but the fear itself? At the top Stephen beams at me as if I were his best pupil who has just answered the hardest question ever. 'Not so bad eh?' he asks as he clips in and sets off again.
The next few miles to St Mawes go nicely and within thirty minutes of leaving the ferry we are chasing each other down the long downhill bends into the village, the road empty and smooth. The houses here are huge 1930s villas mixed in with modern glass and steel and built into the hillside so each has a view across the Percuil river and beyond to the Atlantic. They are occupied by retired admirals mainly, although captains of industry are also welcome. In the bay is a solitary anchored yacht tugging on its chain, bow dipping into the bigger seas running in with the now rather strong westerly blowing off the sea, tossing spray into the air as it throws it's head up, then dipping down into the next wave. That yacht is worth more than my house and I hope the anchor is securely dug in.
Stephen knows a place to get coffee. Of course he does. He seems to know a place to get coffee anywhere we go. We queue obediently and sit outside where I shiver in the cold and Stephen scolds me for not using gel cleaner. 'I am wearing gloves!' I protest and get a lecture on the proper use of PPE (and how Castelli cycling gloves are not proper PPE). It is too cold to linger long.
At this point it appears the bikes have fallen out with each other and are not talking.
'There may be some hills now' says Stephen enigmatically as we cycle past the harbour, clicking through the gears as the full force of the wind hits us. And there are hills, starting with a steep hairpin bend by the Tudor fort that guards the entrance to the Carrick Roads, bronze cannons still pointing out to sea in case of French fishing boats attempting to enter next year. We are still ready for the French and Spanish pirates here. The English Heritage flag is ramrod straight in the wind and the car park is forlorn and empty. Hopefully no foreign boats will attempt entry today as I don't think anyone is in the fort.
More hills as we head back towards Truro but the wind is behind us now and progress is rapid. I can see I am doing 20mph along here and it feels good to be pushed by the wind and by the sight of another bike in front of me that I have to keep up with. I don't have time to think about feeling tired and I am re-discovering the well known truth that cycling together is faster and easier than cycling alone.
We stop for chats. About people we know and places we have been and what things the government could do to make life better for everyone and how easy that would be and why we can see it but no one else and slowly we create a better world where old blokes make decisions whilst cycling. We talk about Audax and long rides and places we might go one day on a bike and the more we talk, the longer the rides become. We part ways in Probus as Stephen heads east into St Austell to talk to the bike shop about new tyres and I turn back into the wind for the last five miles home.
We agree to do this again and then with a click of pedals he is off, vanishing into the gloom, red light flashing, legs spinning tirelessly, another thirty miles ahead of him yet. I suddenly feel quite lonely.
