Harleys then Haldon
Day 3: 14th May, to Ashburton 37 miles, total 102 miles.
I wake up with my nose squashed against one of the rubber tubes of my Lilo, I roll over and whisper, “Are you awake?”
“Yes, morning,” Nicky replies brightly. We turn to face each other and smile.
“Morning,” I reply. She has been awake and reading for an hour already. When you’ve been married as long as we have, you can tell all you need to know from the way things are said, or from a look. I can tell that she is excited about the day ahead and wants to get going, if I try lolling in my pit for much longer it is not going to go down well. Anyway, when I poke my head out the tent it looks like we have a beautiful Sunday morning in prospect. There is a translucent bright mist that means good weather is coming later. We are meeting Rosie, a family friend, for a coffee at The Double Locks pub in Exeter. We don’t need to be there until 11am so a gentle pack up with an extra cup of tea is not a problem.
The Karaoke Queen is still sleeping off last night’s performance just a few feet away, so we try and keep the noise down as we perform the packing dance. A final word with Phil, who should make it to Torquay today, and then we point Edith and all our worldly possessions back out onto the road.
This campsite is right on the route, and we don’t have to re-trace any of our efforts from yesterday. We stop at the entrance, check for cars. Nicky sets the left pedal ready to push off and we’re off, continuing along the road we arrived on last night. The mist may be encouraging for later, but right now I’m getting surprisingly wet! Nicky on the other hand is not. It’s always the same; I collect the flies, rain, fog, or any other precipitation, and she passes through serenely. To be fair I also get most of the sun, which I love. But not right now.
The Double Locks is 18 miles into today’s ride, via a combination of dedicated cycle tracks and a few busyish roads. We make it to the outskirts of Exeter, cycling along the Exeter Ship Canal, and then somehow join the city’s half marathon. We find ourselves weaving between runners coming towards us, and others plodding in front of us. A-level, low speed manoeuvring is required to avoid an early bath or the stingers. Maintaining our collective balance at low speeds is the hardest thing when Edith is fully loaded, but it’s really important! I’m always surprised at how good Nicky is at keeping herself central; balance is not her strongest suit. Ice skating, skateboarding, or skiing would not be additional skills on her CV.
At dodgy moments like these, Nicky and I often unclip our feet from our pedals. It’s almost a reflex. Occasionally I can hear Nicky clipping her feet back in when I’ve not felt the need to unclip. It’s a sure sign that she has recently been feeling a little vulnerable, sat on the back with no controls at all.
This is a potential relationship flashpoint. There is nothing I can do on the back other than keep my weight central and unclip my shoes from the pedals, ready for the nettles or the canal. I do trust Chris, he’s not reckless, and has proved that he can handle Edith, but I must filter my urge to offer advice. Muttering, “Be careful,” through gritted teeth, will not be helpful. Coming down this towpath I’m thinking, “Ring the bell, ring the bell.” Thankfully he does use the bell, and we get past the runners without taking an early bath. Phew!
We’re an hour early at the Double Locks, so we park Edith amongst a pack of Harley Davidsons, which makes for a good family chat pic’. We set Edith’s £15 Amazon bike alarm using the key fob remote, it really is excellent value. If you try and move her, you get a gentle warning, if you continue, the alarm will throw its toys out of the pram and yell at you.
We buy a coffee and tea and sit on a bench with our backs against the pub wall. Like solar panels we set our faces to the morning sun, recharging. Two lads are goading each other into jumping into the canal from the lock gates. Chapeau to one of them because eventually he does take the leap. The other one thinks better of it, even though he is the one wearing the wetsuit.
Rosie arrives; hugs and smiles all round and the memories of a previous era flood back. The youngest of four girls, we have known Rosie and her family since she was a child. Our paths diverged 15 years ago when she went to Uni’, but today they briefly merge again. We get more drinks and tea cakes and catch up with her news. We spread our map on the picnic able and show her our route, she says all the right things, but looks a bit worried. The trouble is, we haven’t achieved anything much. We’ve got an itinerary outlining a 6-week, 1400-mile trip, but so far, we’ve only done 55 miles in 2 days. In a couple of weeks when we tell people we are heading for Spain, and have come from near Bath in England, they may be more impressed. Right now, Rosie is mostly concerned for our safety, and our sanity.
Harleys? They were nice enough, funny accents and too much chrome for me though. Don Mar was a classier soul, with more elegance in just one spoke – I hope she is having a good day. I also hope The Wrinklies slow up with snorting tea cakes. We’re heavy enough already, and I’ve got to carry us all up the Pyrenees!
After saying goodbye to Rosie its uphill and it’s nasty. I was a student at Plymouth Poly’ in the 80’s and my Mini 1000 was down into 3rd gear getting up Telegraph Hill on the A38 out of Exeter. Loaded up with clothes, wetsuit, surfboard and an Aspidistra, I’d gun it at the bottom trying to get to a particular tree before dropping down to 3rd; with any luck I’d get over the top before the ignominy of 2nd.
Haldon Hill runs up to the same ridge as Telegraph Hill but is a quiet, single-track road on account of it being so hideously steep. At mile 24, and fuelled by tea cake and caffeine, we attack the first 100yds with enthusiasm. Enthusiasm, but no muscle tone, sees us drop from 14th to 1st gear. This cog is christened Desperate Devon from now on.
Devon and Cornwall have a curious brand of psychotic hill, often with a small stone bridge at the bottom. Haldon Hill is not the worst we’ve come across, but it’s certainly a worthy starter on this trip’s hill menu. Inevitably there is a gear lower than Desperate Devon, we call it “GOAP” Get Off And Push.
When the three of us first got together, we would do anything to avoid pushing Edith, we soon learned though, that success is about getting all three of us around unscathed. On a previous trip to see my brother Paul and his family in Cornwall, we snapped a chain on a steep climb just after the King Harry Ferry, over the river Fal. With our usual gusto we initiated the starting ritual on a hairpin bend.
“Ready.”
“Yes.”
“Go.”
Instant full gas was required to move forward and avoid tipping off too. This was quickly followed by an odd sensation of freewheeling, as one of the tiny chain links gave up. Instant going nowhere, followed by instant realisation that we did not have any spare chain.
Edith has two chains, one that connects Nicky’s pedals to the rear wheel and another that links my pedals to Nicky’s. That is why tandem cyclists look so neat; their feet are locked together. Nicky can’t avoid pedalling if I am, and vice versa. We are also locked at the same part of the pedal stroke - we are as one.
Anyway, there we were stuck, as one, on a steep hill, and it was raining. Nicky’s first thought was to find me a biscuit or a jelly baby. Mental meltdown postponed, we unloaded all the panniers, flipped Edith upside down and worked out what to do. We had to remove the snapped link from the broken chain and rejoin it.
We needed more chain, and St Austell was 8 miles away. The solution was to make one good chain for Nicky on the back, from Edith’s two chains. My mood was improved no end when I realised that this meant I would sit on the front and just steer - Nicky would do all the pedalling. My joy would be complete if someone shouted, “Oi love! he’s not pedalling!”
Nicky managed the 8 miles in an hour or so; she is made of strong stuff and relished the challenge. I steered and offered encouraging words from the front. We spent the rest of the day outside Halfords getting unbelievably dirty hands, trying to fit Edith with the only chain they had in the shop.
Note to selves, take spare chain, and look after Edith, she is tough but not indestructible.
Hear hear!
So, back to this trip. Even using Desperate Devon, we can’t get up this hill, so we are now gasping and GOAPing up Haldon Hill. Even just pushing is seriously hard work. We are managing 50 steps before our bodies scream out for a break. Someone told us that our max heart rate should be 220 minus our age, as we are both pushing 60 that means 160 is our limit. Nicky’s watch displays her heart rate, and I’m asking her what she is running at; 160 is hard but she says it feels OK, when it gets to 170, we stop.
It reminds me of Scotty calling Kirk on the bridge and imploring, “She’ll no take much more captain!” We hang over the handlebars, maybe have a swig of water, and wait for Nicky’s heart rate to drop below 120, then go again.
I never question Nicky’s pedalling effort. Just occasionally if I am fit to drop on the front and she is chatting away happily on the back, I wonder if she is putting in a full shift. It’s not often though, I generally think of her as being mentally tougher than me. Once when I complained that I thought I was doing all the work, she suggested that I shouldn’t pedal so hard myself. For the next few miles, I let my legs drift around on the pedals, putting in almost no effort. She didn’t complain at all.
During a break, a couple of similarly aged cyclists come down the hill and stop for a chat. Kev and John are obviously not puffed because they are going downhill but they are also not puffed because they are on electric bikes, which right now seems like the best idea. Kev has a funky little low trailer on the back too; which, upon reflection, we think was stuffed with extra batteries. We make it to the top, and then in the normal Devonian way, the road heads straight downhill again.
We stop in Chudleigh for more calories and a tuneful rendition of Daisy Daisy from a couple of lads outside the pub. After 36 miles we reach Ashburton, after a slog along narrow rutted cycle paths. We prop Edith against a bin while Nicky goes into a shop for our evening meal and liquid entertainment. Nice lady comes over and has a chat, she has 4 Thorn bikes, in various configurations, she takes a picture of Edith to show her hubby. Nicky returns with supplies, which we stuff into the day bag. Not far now, it’s just over a mile to Summer Hill campsite just outside the village, then we can relax.
Komoot’s plan is to take us a rough, stupidly steep track then vertically down to the campsite. Believing it must know best we follow like lemmings. We’re beginning to think that someone at Komoot HQ is enjoying a laugh at our expense, because later we find there’s a perfectly good road around this little hill, with no climbing.
We roll into a beautiful meadow at Summer Hill Farm. Lush unmown grass with cheerful Dandelions and Buttercups everywhere. We knock at the farmhouse and are told through a window, we can camp anywhere we like, we pay our £20, cash obviously, and choose our spot. There are other campers around the edge of the field, but we plonk ourselves right in the middle.
Unload Edith, pitch tent, inflate Lilos, put Big Agneses together, make tea. We are getting quicker at this. The showers here are epic, a deluge of water, as hot as you can stand, for as long as you like. A good shower demarcates the day, with the hard work now done, it’s time to relax, recover and refuel for tomorrow. We change for the evening; Nicky dons her pretty pink summer dress with cut-off jeans underneath, I’m in t-shirt, jumper and leather jeans. I bought this pair of trousers a few years ago, they turn out to be perfect camping clobber. They roll up nice and small, don’t crease, and if they get dirty you can sponge them off. We both wear flip flops as these are the only non-pedalling shoes we have.
It’s a lovely sunny evening and we spend a blissful hour or so doing The Times online concise crossword, me with a beer, and Nicky with an Earl Grey. We cook pasta and pesto for supper, eating up any other bits and pieces we have too; we are catching the ferry tomorrow and the rules are strict about taking food into France, apparently.
By 8pm the clouds gather, and it starts to rain gently. We flip over our chairs and retreat indoors, we both love the pitter patter of rain on a tent, so we lie there in our bags and just listen. We each have a little pocket in the wall of the tent lining, about 8” off the ground, next to our heads. We put our Kindles, phones, diaries etc. in these. In my case it acts as a mini bar too; trying to stand a bottle of beer up in a tent is just asking for trouble. For the next hour or so we read, drink, and listen to the rain, write up the diary, and occasionally talk to each other.
Did we learn anything about our quest for post child independence today? We learned that even the hills which seem to go on forever have a top. We also remembered that there is no disgrace in GOAping. Just keep moving forward.
Cocooned in my sleeping bag I am so happy - weary but happy. Unlike Chris I opted for tea rather than a beer while I ponder the day and listen to the rain. I contemplated buying one of those cans of premixed Pimms but the days don’t yet feel warm enough for that. My body aches from the pedalling, and from the not quite perfect, previous two nights of sleep. It is taking me a while to adjust to my holiday bed – not the memory foam comfort I am used to, but plenty of ‘fresh air’. Strangely perhaps the weariness adds to my sense of fulfilment – It is the evidence I am looking for that says I am gently pushing myself physically and mentally. Happy days indeed and the hope of more ahead.
