The Green Saddle: A Full English Breakfast

Day: 6 (Dulverton to Glastonbury)

Average Speed: 9.5 mph

Distance Today: 65.7 miles

Distance Cycled Total: 309.6 miles

Feet climbed: 2385.2 today, 17,248.2 total

Difficulty level: Somewhat challenging start, rough but easy end

Graffiti on the side of the Brewhouse Theater in Taunton

A full English breakfast consists of a heaping portion of each of the following:

Stock Photo- Accurate Representation

Fried Eggs
Sausages
Back Bacon
Tomatoes
Mushrooms
Fried Bread
Hash Browns
Baked Beans
Regular White Bread

The pub where I had dinner advertised breakfast beginning at 8 AM. I was there at 7:30. Not so much for the food- I really don't eat breakfast all that often- but to hijack their Wifi, the password for which I had gleaned while enjoying a pint the night prior.

Still... you have to order something, right?

The waitress didn't really give me any options, and there was no menu.

"Full English, then?" she asked when she came to take my order.

"Do you have a smaller version?" I had heard of the legendary portions.

She looked disappointed. "Half then," she said, and walked off.

That was my first mistake of the day. Even with the reduced size, after I finished my belly grumbled uncomfortably, asking Why on earth would you do that?

I ignored it and set off from Bampton, essentially starting the day six miles in my favor since I had actually travelled a bit beyond Dulverton yesterday.

Today's Elevation Profile

Elderly women outpacing me.

According to the guide, the climbs around Bampton are "...nothing as demanding as in previous stages." I call bullshit on that. Although the guide is remarkably well-written, the climb on the way out of Bampton was absurd.

At one point, it was all I could do to keep pace with two elderly pedestrians in front of me.

Another touring cyclist was pushing her bike up a steep section. I passed her only to cycle a couple hundred more feet before giving up myself, the grade undoubtedly north of 20%. For the first time in three years (since a small section of road in Illinois that I couldn't manage), I was walking.

At least I had company. I waited for the cyclist behind me and we pushed our loaded bikes together, both of us equally out of breath. We didn't exchange names, but her French accent led me to believe it was Simone. She certainly seemed like a Simone.

Trouble was brewing when we approached the top. I pretended like I had some business to take care of, and Simone mounted her bicycle and journeyed on.

I counted a slow ten after she disappeared around the nearby bend in the road... then SPLAT!

I suppose since I experienced the half version of the traditional breakfast twice that, indeed, I truly did have a Full English.

I'll spare you the picture.

Hedges

A couple minutes later, I remounted the bike (feeling quite refreshed), unaware that Simone hadn't journeyed on at all. There is no way she didn't hear me dramatically retching a mere fifty feet away. I asked her if she had a breath mint. She didn't. I moved on. Thankfully, that was the last of our encounters.

The rest of the first half felt like I was in a winding hedge maze of sorts, the view never quite changing. To the left: a tall hedge. To the right: a tall hedge. Hedges all the way in to the larger-than-expected city of Taunton.

Along the Taunton Canal

Taunton's sprawling layout of cycle lanes, roads, and footpaths eventually gave way to a single gravel path, parallel to the Taunton Canal.

It was pleasant, for about the first three miles. And although I was grateful for the reprieve from steep climbing, by the tenth mile, my rump was rhythmically tapping out S.O.S in Morse code.

Everything began to look the same as the path steadily became less and less groomed.

A local told me to go this way. I swear.

Eventually, I made it to the less-than-attractive town of Bridgwater. It's one of those towns that appears under permanent construction (like Port Jervis close to where I live), and confusing detours are everywhere.

My GPS (Garmin) came to life, alerting OFF COURSE! But there was nothing I could do about it other than try to follow the detour and hope the routes would sync back together eventually. And while I somehow navigated myself to a dead end underneath a highway overpass, I did end up on Route 3 once again.

Curiously enough, my Garmin didn't say COURSE FOUND! as it normally would.

No matter.

I could clearly see that I was traveling along the cycle route.

That was my second mistake.

Oops.

Perhaps I should've been a bit more curious as to why the canal was now on the other side of me as I traveled, having no recollection of crossing it.

Perhaps I should've been more suspicious of the man fishing who looked awfully similar to the man I had seen fishing a few miles back.

But when I saw the sign that said "Taunton 8 Miles" pointing in the direction I was heading, I stopped dead. That sign should read "Taunton 18 Miles" and be pointing the other direction.

I reluctantly turned my bicycle 180 degrees and the Garmin cheered. COURSE FOUND!

I had just retraced my steps and gone backwards about ten miles.

The Garmin is great. But some types of stupid just can't be fixed.

Downtown Glastonbury

While tour cycling, there are few things worse than going the wrong direction. Ten miles isn't ten miles. It's twenty. That's at least two hours. And when you're anticipating your arrival in the early evening, and anticipating a relaxing night at the pub, it's soul crushing.

Lest you think I'm the only one who has done this, in 2016, during the annual bicycle race across America, Australian distance racer Sarah Hammond was set to be the first woman to win. With a comfortable fifty mile lead nearing the end, she took a break, got back on her bike, and headed off in the completely wrong direction. Sure- I grumbled about my mistake at length- I'm over it now. But Hammond? I guarantee few days go by where she doesn't think about that. She finished sixth.

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Having no desire to go back to Bridgwater, I hoped Google Maps would save me by finding an alternate route. It did. Along main roads. It was miserable. I was angry with myself. It started to rain.

But it was paved.

And my arse was A.O.K. with that.

Made it to the quiet but famous town of Glasbury (think Woodstock, NY or Salem, MA) before nightfall, and made it to the pub before closing, where English breakfast is served all day.

I went with the curry.