I sat on a train from Truro, destination Paddington, London. The word 'failure' just wouldn't leave my heavy mind. I was travelling too fast, the seat was too conventional. This wasn't my plan, I knew it was an option, though one I never wanted to take. My knees ultimately had other ideas. I said I would ride back, this train was not my bicycle. It was a train. And it stunk of an adventure over.
The first day started early, 7AM. I left under subdued skies. Indifferent to me and my adventure. I settled down into a rhythm, which got better as I made a right onto the A25 to Guildford. It was relatively flat compared to what I would later go on to tackle. It was a Sunday and the cyclists were out in force. These parts are notorious for MAMILs (middle aged men in lycra) and the wannabe pros searching out hills from their trendy London neighbourhoods. We all gave one another a nod as we passed, there's a good camaraderie amongst cyclists. Little they knew of my ride ahead. Little I knew of my ride ahead. I had all and no control.
I honestly don't remember all that much from the first half of the ride, or the second come to think of it, just moments. I had my first and only minor mechanical. My brake pads appeared to rub against the rim of the front wheel. I had an Allen Key to see to it and I pushed on. It started to drizzle at about mile 40, this wasn't meant to happen. All the foreshadowing images of my mind the month before saw nothing but hot blue skies. Luckily it was still warm.
My GPS reading of 40 miles turned to 60, then up to 80, the number kept on creeping higher. Yet my legs didn't seem to notice. I stopped here and there, to check the map, take a quick snap or get some food and water. Surrey became Hampshire, and Hampshire became Wiltshire and before I knew it Stonehenge was not far away. As I sit here at home in Kent, Stonehenge seems like a place very far away. But yet within a matter of hours I'd cycled there.
I stopped for chips and a coke in Andover. Here the guys behind the counter asked about my milage, 103 miles at that point. Two pairs of eyebrows moved sharply upward. I was only going for a bike ride. Although, breaking the century felt good, only my second to date. I sat in a church yard, ate what I could of my chips and battered sausage and carried on.
Once I hit Salisbury plain I began to think about looking for somewhere to camp. Most of this area is used by the military for whatever they need it for. Kind of sad it's taken over by tanks and blanks but that's how it is in this fearful world. I was getting a bit stressed, the roads were straight, fast and getting busy and I didn't want to camp in a firing range. My dad and sister were texting me through possible campsites near to where I was. My Mum found a good one which wasn't far, I headed for it.
I arrived and asked if they had room for a one man tent, they did. They told me there was no hot water and then asked how far I'd come, I told them. No wonder I didn't care about not having hot water the younger of the two said with a strong Wiltshire accent. They were the first of many to think I was mad, I couldn't quite see it yet. It amused them anyhow. It was a pretty campsite, the birds were 'loud loud loud' as I wrote in my journal. The light was perfect.
128 miles for the day, 8 hours in the saddle, my longest ever ride, and I felt very good for it. Things had started well. It was good to get the day finished, become comfortable and have an idea of what was in store, this was still only the beginning. It was relatively uneventful. I was happily knackered and ready for a night's sleep.
Hooked please continue :)
ReplyDelete