May, 2014
The Cruel Cornish Hills
We were not counting on the punishing hills. We should have been more realistic. Our only previous bike tour had been on a rails to trails outing of five or six days where doing thirty to forty miles in a day was not a problem, even for us at 70. Okay, we thought, it will take a little longer. But we can manage. Wrong. Our bikes were more heavily laden, we're now 73, and we think we were lacking a lower gear or two that "real" touring/road bikes have (ours were a compromise purchase of commuting bikes at a reasonable price with elevated handlebars which is much more comfortable for us than the bent over road bike style). Consequently, we couldn't even peddle to the top of many of Cornwall's steep back roads. We'd have to get off and push the last bits. By the time we'd reach our day's destination, we'd be really done in. Then we'd have to get up and do it all again the next day. After only three days, we took a day off. That was in Mortenhampstead. We'd made it all the way through Cornwall, Devon and across Dartmoor. But we were wiped out. Our host in a B and B there (Cookshayes Country Guest House), Barry, was terrific. Sympathetic, supportive, caring. He did our laundry, we enjoyed his fabulous breakfasts, and hiked the moor--that was dumb. We should have just slept. Anyway, there were lovely moments we could reflect about. The gorgeous stone houses and churches, many draped in blooming clematis, just like in the pictures of English cottages. The brilliantly colored rhododendrons blooming in multiple front gardens, just like as though it were nothing special. Lovely tea breaks in cute shops. Gorgeous, hilly fields newly spread with, yikes, smelly manure. Well, that wasn't so nice, actually. Tall hedges/stone walls lining one-lane roads with few cars, and when there was a car, they were so careful of us. BUT, the downsides were heavier. While the UK is working on making more cycle trails, and traffic free routes, at this moment it is still not easy to go long distances without hitting A or B roads for some miles most days. The B roads aren't so bad, but the A roads can be awful. There's no tradition of shoulders on roads in the UK, probably because of rock walls. Ancient stone walls line most of the roads, and to move them and make shoulders would probably raise a howl of protest. So paved roads are two cars wide, in most cases, and that's it. So picture riding along on the edge of your lane, with lots of traffic, including trucks and buses. Cars line up behind you, or else pass inches from your terrified body. It's not fun. Most drivers are courteous and careful, waiting to pass when it's clear. But not all. My neon yellow rain/wind jacket probably saved our lives a time or two. It was eye catching, even on dark days. There are modern roads with shoulders, the M roads, but they are off limits to cyclists, as they should be.
We pursued, on to Bristol from the moor. But on the way, the second day from Bristol, I took a spill. Geo had warned me about trying to cross even a low curb on our rather slick roadie tires. Sure enough, I was trying to leave heavy traffic to do a route check (we had to constantly pay attention to our written directions) and there was just a one inch edge. I didn't have enough of an angle to cross it. My front wheel just hit it and stopped, and the bike keeled over sideways, kaboom. My head hit the ground hard--I was so grateful right away for my helmet. And my whole left side. Wham. Geo pulled me up, and I really thought I was okay. I knew it was as hard a fall as I'd ever experienced, but nothing was broken. Only a scrape on the left side of my knee. It took a couple of days for the bruised ribs to let me know how affected they were. We cycled on to Wells, looked at the cathedral, then Bristol. The next morning I was beginning to feel worse. We decided to stay another night. But that afternoon, we concluded we'd best abort the ride. We were just not making enough progress to get to Scotland in the time we'd allotted, even were I not injured. So we planned to ride 50 miles further on, where we could get a good train connection to Glasgow, in Hereford. Meanwhile I started taking ibuprofen, after reading that pain control was the most important treatment for bruised ribs. But getting out of Bristol proved to be an awful morning. First we crossed the Avon on the wrong bridge, adding ten miles to our ride to Monmouth. Then we had miles of A road with terrible traffic. Stressful. Finally we got into Wales and gorgeous peddling (Tinturn Abbey!) though still hard. By the time we reached Monmouth at 3:00 or so, I was a wreck. I showered and fell into bed, sleeping an hour. 
The most painful time was at night, Moving around in bed was so difficult. More pain meds. I was sorry to have to go another 20 miles the next day, but it was a beautiful, warm, sunny day (we'd had a week of spotty rain, clouds, chilly temps), and no really steep hills, though hills there were. We had booked in to the airbnb home of Kathleen B., a welcoming, generous host who took really good care of us, which helped a lot. The next morning we caught the train, and in 5 hours with only one change we were in Glasgow.
At first we thought I could rest a couple of days and we'd pick up the cycling again. But impediments loomed. The weather was Scottish: cold and wet. The hill profiles and distances were challenging. My injuries were not just healing overnight. So we rented a car. The next phase has become a road trip, with a tiny Fiat. That blog to follow. Meanwhile, I'll tack on some photos, though I did not get many of the early days of cycling.
Photos: Top, George near Mortenhampstead. A misty morning in Cornwall. Middle, a nice B and B north of Exeter. Below, the start at Lands End, and Barry's super "full English breakfast"--enough to cycle on all day.
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