A Modern Miracle, I Guess

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Although I am usually a modest sort of chap, not one to boast or brag, I am the very model of the modern miracle of recovery.

For example, in 1988, the doctor said I was lucky to still be able to walk following a bad football tackle.
Well, “tackle” would not really describe it: during a Five-A-Side match, an opponent was about to shoot, so I jumped in to block. He completely missed the ball but connected with my left knee very powerfully. I dropped to the floor of the sports hall, writhing in agony, as everybody else professionally carried on playing.
Needless to say, I was off work for a couple of months as I could not walk properly.
Three months of gentle cycling helped strengthen the knee and I resumed playing footie about eight months later, in 1989, missing most of that seasons’ Sunday football league fixtures.
Yes, looking back, I was quite lucky to still be mobile, but you don’t appreciate it, at the time.

Several minor injuries occurred until, in 2011, my doctor again said I was lucky to be able to walk, never mind run or cycle, due to work-related back injuries that began about 2008; after several sessions treatment by an Osteopath, most of the back pain had gone and I began walking without the aid of the trekking pole that had become something of a trademark.

The back injury returned, for no apparent reason, exactly a year later in April 2012, lasting about a month, this time. It occurred as I was in training for a long distance cycle touring venture, from Santander to Roscoff, a distance of about 750 miles, which isn’t a massive distance to experienced cycle-campers, but this would be my first go.
If I had called it off, I would have let down a friend, and myself, so I persevered, after I recovered enough to walk again.
So, to aid my recovery, I bought myself an exercise bike and built-up my distances and duration incrementally before returning to the road bike.
My endurance and distances grew to about 70miles, and I managed to get my time down from 7hrs to 5hrs, over the last couple of weeks prior to departure. However, in the back of my mind, there was the niggling doubt that my back pain my return if I overdid it.

During the journey, fear of crippling myself and failing to complete the journey, and looking a prick, spurred me on to complete mental and physical goals, busting psychological ghosts and barriers along the way.

Despite suffering THREE punctures on the final day, I completed the journey, boarding the Roscoff to Plymouth ferry with only ten minutes to spare.
Another minor miracle!

Touch wood, despite some back pain returning every so often, I can still walk and cycle, although my running days are over.

Look after your back . . .


Cycling South Devon Coast

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I’ve been cycling a bit more than usual, of late on my trusty steed, a 1999 Haro Vector V1 hard-tail mountain bike.

It was only 22 miles, but last Saturday’s route was one of the toughest for a while, given the hot conditions which we’re not used to any more in England.

Four of us intrepid hackers made our way past Wembury and down to Warren Point, where we crossed to Noss Mayo and followed the trail around the headland to Revelstoke and Mothecombe Beaches. The seasonal ferry costs £3.50 per person and bike, which may seem a lot, but I believe it is unsubsidised, hence the seasonal operation.

Much of the trail was built by Edward VII for his nefarious liaisons with his various “lady” friends and, like them, it is quite an easy ride.

The toughest parts of the route were a couple of climbs, lifting and pushing the bike up steps. One climb led to a rocky promontory where several vultures circled above, waiting to pounce, should any of us pass-out in the heat. I exaggerate, of course; they were only buzzards, but such is the gallows humour of the tired, hot and thirsty cyclist.

One odd moment was when we got to Revelstoke Beach car park and had a short break the shade of some trees; on the gatepost was a sign saying “Mountain-biking prohibited”. It was strange that there weren’t any signs at the other end, but don’t tell anyone!

There are outstanding coastal views to be had looking ahead to Hope Cove, Bolt Tail and Bolt Head.

We pushed on, on foot, through the soft sand of Mothecombe Beach, which was rammed full of lazy sunbathers. I was quite tempted to go for a cooling dip in the sea but, for some daft reason, I just pressed on with the others.

At Battisborough X I turned left while the others turned right for the main road.
I like to think my route (coastal, almost traffic-free, more scenic) was the better, and it probably was; Membland and Bridgend are beautiful little hamlets and it was a nice, shady and fast road.

After a five minute break at Bridgend, where I took in the view down the tidal creek, before making the assault up the killer climb to the ridge. I hurtled down to Puslinch Bridge and made another tough climb to the A379 at Kitley.
It was then a road slog through Brixton back to Elburton and a couple of well-earned pints of cider at the Ships Tavern.



New Road-Bike Dilemma: Yay or Nay?

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A friend has seen a half-decent road bike, on-line, at a very cheap price, £300, for what you get for the money.
Ok, it’s not massive money, but it represents adding to his existing debt.

His dilemma is that he’s unemployed, but has a credit card quaking in his wallet.

He has a choice:
1. Damn it all to hell and just buy it, dealing with the further debt when he gets a job; He needs/wants a new road bike.
2. Be Mr Responsible and leave it until he gets a job, hoping similar deals will still be around then.

Which would you do?

Santander – Roscoff: A Cycling Journey 2012

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1. Prelude and Preparation

“I’m thinking of cycle-camping from Santander to Roscoff, sometime in mid-June,” I said to Paddy, one evening down the pub in February. Paddy had done the 900+miles from John O’Groats to Land’s End the previous summer.

“What distance is it?” Paddy asked.

“About 700miles or 1100-ish kilometers,” I replied.

“I’ll do it, with you,” Paddy said. “It’s probably best if there are a few more, though.”

“Just in case something happens?” I asked.

“Well, yes, but it’s more sociable, too,” Paddy said.

So, there it was, agreed; we would cycle the route, carrying all our kit and caboodle, hopefully with another one or two others. My main problem was that I didn’t have a roadworthy bike; my mountain-bike (pictured below), with the added weight of the luggage etc, would be way too heavy for me on my first journey of this kind. Luckily, Paddy offered to lend me his spare bike; so, problem solved.

1999 Haro Vector V1 V-BAR: With all the luggage etc to be added, and the added rolling resistance from the wide tyres, I decided to ride a lighter bike

Another little problem was getting me fit enough for the challenge. Even though I ran and hashed, albeit less frequently than a few years prior, this was not nearly enough; I needed to do some distance cycling. This was easily solved with some rides into Dartmoor and the South Hams, combining distance and hills; ideal. I steadily built-up my distances so that, by the end of the hot, sunny March, I could cycle out to Totnes and back, a distance of about 45 miles.

All was going well until, in early April, I did my back in while out running with Titchika, the German Shepherd. My back was in so much pain that, even with the prescribed tramadol pain-killers, I couldn’t get out of bed, never mind walk, run or cycle for about three weeks. This was such a huge catastrophe that I constantly considered cancelling the trip. However, as I recovered, I began walking and cycling short distances and, when I fully recovered, I bought a folding exercise bike to supplement my training. My training was coming on again and I made steady distance increases to places such as Tavistock (36 miles), Princetown (41 miles) and Okehampton (70 miles), plus mileage on the exercise bike.

Some people knock exercise bikes for the wrong or zealous reasons, citing that they’d rather be out on the road or that it’s boring and uninspiring. Don’t listen to them; they’re idiots. As there are no downhill sections on exercise bikes, you don’t get any rest; it’s constant pedalling. In fact, I reckon, if you did one hour on an exercise bike, that’s the equivalent of doing between 1.5 – 2 hours on a road bike. So, if, like me, you did two hours on the highest couple of settings on the exercise bike, at an average speed of, say, 20mph, you’ve just done the equivalent of nearly FOUR hours out on the road, plus, if you close the doors and windows on a warm, sunny day, you can get part-acclimatised to the temperatures we expected to confront on the road.

Me 70mile Okehampton ride: At 315metres and 295metres respectively, Black Down and Sourton Down were higher than any hill we planned to encounter in Spain and France

The route would follow the coast along the Bay of Biscay, as much as possible, until we hit Brittany, which we would cross, via Roc Trevezel, to Roscoff on the English channel. I made a route mileage list, without marking evening stop-overs as we didn’t definitely know where we would end-up each evening. Evening meal and breakfast food would be purchased certainly after five pm, probably after 7pm.

I carried in my pannier bags: lightweight sleeping bag, a few spare clothes, some toiletries, towel, phone-charger, waterproofs, cycle lock, maps, camera, emergency and first aid kits, dish, flipflops and some other stuff. In the saddlepack was a spare innertube, repair kit and tools. On Paddy’s advice, I mistakenly brought a rucksack, inside which was my bumbag (fanny pack in Americanese) containing passport, money, the day’s map, Swiss Army knife, snacks, spare glasses, all-in-one spoon, fork and knife. With the benefit of hindsight, because/despite it was only a 20litre rucksack, it was only really of use when carrying food and drink purchased late in the day, but I could have used a gym bag for that.

About 150 Portugal-bound Hog Owners awaiting to board the ferry at Plymouth

So, on Sunday 10th June, with all this preparation, I reckoned that I was quite up for the trip and was pretty confident as we boarded Brittany Ferries’ MV Pont Aven, with about 150 Harley Davidson motorbike owners, in Plymouth for Santander, Spain . . .