Never Ruin a Perfect Day

Day: 3 (Padstow to Bude)

Average Speed: 9 mph

Distance Today: 50 miles

Distance Cycled Total: 148.9 miles 

Feet climbed: 2,559 today, 9,512.4 total

Difficulty level: Relatively easy with one big challenge

Coffee Truck on the Camel Trail

I hesitate to say this so early on- I think I only said it twice across America, and maybe once on my last European trip- but I’m pretty sure that was a perfect day. I suppose it would’ve been more perfect were it not for me sucking wind up the climb that even my modest British guide calls “significant,” but that’s on me. Not on the day. 

Today's Elevation Profile (minus the ten or so miles prior)

I was somewhat disappointed yesterday when I didn’t make the mileage I had originally planned. As it turns out, that ultimately led to a beautiful (and very easy) ride along the famed Camel Trail on a lovely Sunday morning. The sun out, the ride smooth, the trail alive with families and well-behaved dogs at times, then serene and peaceful at others. Fifteen miles of bliss. 

The Camel Trail

The weather seemed to know when I was about to hit my biggest climb of the day too, as the sun graciously ducked behind clouds while I struggled up the wall of a hill into the village of St. Breward.  People love to watch cyclists struggle. It brings them great joy. I don’t mind a bit. In fact, I encourage it by offering this comment: “The Cornish sure do know how to make a proper hill!” Without fail, this elicits belly laughs and prideful boasts. It’s possible that I’ve made this comment about fifty times by now, but the key to eliciting people’s reactions is to always make it sound as if it were an off-the-cuff comment. I learned that from my father when we toured on a tandem bicycle. 

Almost hit these sheep

The highlight of the day was cycling over the Bodmin Moor, which is the closest thing to a mountain here in Cornwall. Teeming with free range farm animals (I almost plowed into a small flock of crossing sheep... that would've been baaaaaa-d) and incredible views, the cycle path lazily climbs to its peak at 980 feet. Traffic is light on the one-lane road, and drivers (as they have been since Day 1) are extremely courteous, cautious, and patient when it comes to cyclists. They do not seem to mind motoring behind your 3 mph pace during a climb, and will not honk even if you are unaware they're behind you. Nearly every one offers a pleasant acknowledgement when it is 100% safe for them to pass. This is not that different in much of America, but where I am from, cars frequently don't budge from their lane as they zoom past. It's refreshing. 

Vaughan Williams

At one point, I stopped for a snack in front of a farmhouse, unaware that its owner was nearby in the garden. I was startled when he called out, and a pair of eyes and a hat peered over a rustic rock wall. 

"You a'right then, are ye?" he asked.

He reminded me of that character Wilson, Tim's neighbor in that 90's sitcom Home Improvement. 

"I'm fine," I replied. "Just having a snack."

"That's a good idea, ain't it."

Vaughan Williams (not Wilson) belongs to one of six families who live on the Bodmin Moor. "You have to be a bit mad to live here, but I like it just fine." He is a charming man who, a decade ago (when he was 63 years old), walked the direct 900-mile route from John O'Groats to Lands End in order to raise money for his son's spinal surgery. He did it in 57 days. 

The tors in the distance... not raining just yet.

"The kind of trip your taking," he said, "...it's not about the actual cycling, it's about the people ya meet, ain't it?" 

 Sure is. 

He offered a brief history of the area, noting the World War II ruins, the wild horses, and a meteorologist's explanation of the rocky crags in the distance: "We have a saying here... if you can see those tors, it's going to rain. If you can't see them, it is raining." 

Minty lamb pie. Delicious.

With brilliant timing, the sun reappeared for the thrilling descents (marked with a few steep climbs lest you enjoy yourself "too much"), which eventually led to the beautiful town of Bude, known for its surf culture. I checked into a hostel, and immediately sought out a pub for a well deserved dinner and a pint. The bartender recommended I order the minty lamb pie. My rule of thumb: no matter how disgusting it sounds, always try what the locals recommend. 

Bude

I had been keeping to myself, casually goofing off on my phone, when I overheard a voice nearby. 

"Mum!" it said, "No one needs to know that!"

My curiosity was piqued. 

"No one needs to know what?" I asked innocently. 

The bawdy woman whom the child was addressing staggered over to my table, leaned down as if to whisper, then shouted "THAT I'M A REDHEAD DOWNSTAIRS!" 

You can guess which one is "Becs."
And no, I did not expect that pose just before her daughter
took the pic.

Oh boy. Her fourteen year old daughter 

was right. No one needed to know that. 

Rebecca (or "Becs") quickly determined I was American, and I became the curiosity of the entire pub. She ran outside to get her friends ("There's a rear exit to this place," a nearby patron said, "I suggest you run now"). They flocked around me with all sorts of questions and crass comments. 

"What's Disney World like?" 

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"You don't call them chips in America do you?" 

"What sound does a goat make? Is it 'baaa' or 'maaa'?" 

Oddly enough, that last question had the entire pub making barnyard sounds for about five minutes. 

I'll skip over the other comments Becs and her cadre made, lest you're eating breakfast while reading this. Suffice it to say, while nursing my second pint, I was offered accommodations for the night several times. 

No thanks, Becs and company. I'm fine with the hostel. 

Wouldn't want to ruin a perfect day. 

P.S. 

Not Quite the "Polite Notice" as Featured Yesterday. 

Jim Quinlan's Guide for the Out of Shape and Overambitious Cyclist

Day: 2 (Truro to Padstow)

Average Speed: Like... 6 mph? I dunno. Don't judge.

Distance Today: 35.4 miles

Distance Cycled Total: 98.9 miles

Feet climbed: 3035 today, 6,953.4 total

Difficulty level: Moderately difficult

Advice I am happy to take.

Consider the following statement from my guidebook:

Today’s route traverses five valleys on its way to Padstow. It’s a bit of a challenge, so make sure you rest and enjoy the view from the top of the hills. 

Today's elevation profile... the five valleys are labeled.

A bit of a challenge? Brits are masters of the understatement. Holding in a fart while you’re teaching a class of students is “a bit of a challenge.” Maintaining an intelligible conversation with your dental hygienist while she tears at your gums is “a bit of a challenge.” Completing a Wednesday crossword is “a bit of a challenge.” 

If today’s hills were crosswords, they’re all Saturdays in my book. 

Good thing I’m not on editing duty. My version would go something like this:

The band Super Tennant meets for rehearsal.
Why here? Why not!

Today’s route will make you question whether or not those 200 "training miles" you put in before you started were time well spent. Remember how you whined about how difficult they were? How hot it was? Haha! You could've been binge-watching Stranger Things on Netflix, you fool! Those miles meant NOTHING! You will have absolutely no chance of crossing these five valleys today without looking like a complete out-of-shape idiot. So look for any excuse possible to stop and catch your breath. Is that a candy bar wrapper on the shoulder of the road? Stop and pick it up! It’s your duty as a guest in England to help keep the country clean. When’s the last time you checked your email? There could be an important message about an English department meeting for this upcoming September! Is there a local band name Super Tennant randomly rehearsing on a dirt road in the middle of a hill? Now’s a perfect time to get to know their music. Remember, it’s not laziness if there’s a reason you need to stop. However, others do not know this… so if you hear a car coming, hop back on that bike until that car is out of sight. We don’t want anyone to think lesser of you. 

Jim Quinlan’s Guide for the Out of Shape and Overambitious Cyclist. That’s what I’ll call it. 

Someone out there needs to cater to my demographic.

But at least they gave me permission to rest at the top of each. Don’t ask me twice. And of course I soaked in the views. Refer to the elevation guide above to determine which view belongs to which peak. 

PEAK #1 VIEW:

PEAK #2 VIEW:

PEAK #3 VIEW:

PEAK #4 VIEW:

PEAK #5 VIEW:

There. You got all the views with none of the cursing it took to get up to see them.

Again, from the guidebook: There are a few climbs on the way out of Truro…

Either my definition of “a few” or my definition of “climbs” is very different from the guide’s. I would write something like: The beginning of your day is going to suck. Big time. Have coffee with the campground owner before even thinking of packing your bags. Talk with Paul, your neighbor (or “neighbour” if you prefer) whom you met yesterday, and get to know him a bit more. Did you shower last night? You did? Shower again. Start every day fresh! No need to start the day just yet. 

The new tent. RIP coffin. Hello mansion.

Here’s another line from the guide: It’s a sublime ride in the afternoon. In contrast to the hills of the morning the trail eases its way past mudflats and golden sand banks. 

The guidebook once again assumes too much. It thinks I left in the morning. Not a chance! 

Sure, I had high hopes of leaving before sunrise. I always do. Every night before work at home I tell myself “Tomorrow’s gonna be the day that I get there at 5:30 AM, grade all those essays, and plan the rest of the week!” I’ve been saying that for thirteen years. You can ask my colleagues how many times that has actually happened. 

But I actually had a legitimate excuse for my 12:30 PM start. I needed a replacement tent. And the shops in Truro don’t open until 10 AM. And I consider it crass to begin shopping within the first hour of a store opening. 

The eager associate named Adam at HawksHead Outdoor Store was determined to try to repair my existing coffin of a tent, but gave up after forty-five minutes. And the ones he had in stock were too big to fit in my luggage. So he reluctantly sent me across town to the competing store where I was in and out in five minutes, tent in hand. 

I shipped the old one home, asking for the cheapest rate possible. “Well, there’s economy class for eight pounds,” the postmaster said, “but that can take up to 42 days!” Sold. 

Padstow

At my pathetic pace of 6 MPH (perhaps less?), I didn’t make it too far today. Although the hills are not particularly long (most are less than a mile), they are intensely steep, and when you’re climbing each one at 2 MPH, it’ll slow you down.

Fish & Chips.
Culinary excellence indeed. 

I certainly could’ve made the destination city of Bodmin tonight. After all, I completed the difficult part of the route. But I needed to make sure I could set up my new tent. And Padstow seems like a swell place that, per my guidebook, is “…famed for its culinary excellence.” 

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And a friend had added to the beer fund and bought me a Cornish beer early this morning that needed savoring. 

Any excuse to stop is acceptable, as long as it’s not laziness. You can always make up the miles tomorrow. 

That’s going to be the subtitle of my guidebook. 

P.S. 

In the future, all of my classroom rules are going to start with "Polite Notice"

Back in the Saddle Again

Day: 1 (Lands End to Truro)

Average Speed: 8 m/hr (yeesh!)

Distance Today: 11 miles to starting point + 1 mile of looking for starting point + 48 miles main ride + 3.5 miles to campsite = 63.5 miles

Distance Cycled Total: 63.5 miles

Feet climbed today: 3918.4

Difficulty level: Moderately difficult

The famous sign at Lands End, which is hard to take pictures of since there's a guy
who wants money from you for a proper picture. 

They're everywhere.

England! The land where telephone booths are still a thing! The land where if you take two completely unrelated nouns and separate them with an ampersand, you have a pub name! (I call dibs on “The Milk & Crayon.” I think that’s a lovely name.) The land where you need to make reservations for your bicycle if you plan to take it on a train. 

Oops. 

And here I was patting myself on the back for the more-thorough-than-usual planning I’d done ever since I decided to do this trip a week or two ago. 

Turns out there are exactly four “parking spots” for bicycles on most trains… and on the trains going to Lands End (my starting point… and everyone else’s), they fill up quick. I found comfort in another cyclist named Jane, who was also unaware of the reservation policy. Ignorance loves company. We found an open spot next to one other bike and crammed all three together in the tiny bicycle closet, tying them snugly with my cheap lock. It was a beautiful bicycle orgy. We celebrated our masterpiece with a high five, an awkward half-hug, and took our seats. Then the German guy who’d actually reserved the spot boarded.

He was pissed. I’ll call him Fritz. I’m sure that’s not his name, but it should be. He seemed like a Fritz. 

“Vat? Vat iss dis?!” Fritz threw up his hands in exaggerated exasperation. I sat in my train seat and weighed my options: pretend both bikes belonged to Jane, who clearly should’ve made a reservation. Or talk to him myself. I sighed and chose the latter.

“Hey… so, my friend and I didn’t realize we had to reserve a spot for bikes so we managed to-“ I started. 

“I make reservation! This cannot be! Iss not proper!” He gesticulated dramatically, and his eyes darted around, looking for a conductor to serve as judge in the new Fritz v. Quinlan complaint. Surely, there was a precedent in his favor.

St. Michael's Mount in Penzance... a giant castle on an island.

“I totally understand, but perhaps we can…”

“Nein!” Fritz began to tear the beautiful orgy apart. “I mean… I… I bike across zee United States last year! 4,000 miles! 60 days!” He said that with the same tone that one would say “You’re a complete asshole!” Only with those words instead. Strange, right? I played into the humblebrag and congratulated him on his accomplishment. He softened up a little, stored his bike, and left me standing there to figure out the rest on my own. Somehow, I did. 

45 minutes later, it was announced our train was broken, and we had to switch to another. 

Reservations no longer mattered.  Take that, Fritz. 

I arrived in Penzance about five hours later (the lack of singing pirates was immediately conspicuous). After checking in to my hostel, I headed off to do some laundry. I asked a fellow… erm… launderer... if she could recommend a good pub for the evening. 

“The Lamp & Whistle is lovely, or you could try The Coach & Horses. Whatever you do, stay out of One & All next door. It’s where the unsavory types like to go, if you know what I mean.”

The "unsavories" of Penzance: Jerry, Steve, Me, and Kev 

I knew what she meant, so I took her advice and headed to One & All. The unsavories are my type of people. That’s where the night began, and that’s where it pretty much ended. I instantly met Kev and Steve, who made sure my pint was never empty. Turns out Kev toured for seven years on a bicycle with a bongo drum and juggling equipment on his back, making a few quick bucks in one European town square before moving on to the next. Jerry joined in later, and I told them of my plan to start my first day by cycling eleven miles “backwards” to my starting point only to pass through Penzance again on the way to Truro. This made sense to no one. 

Kev had a better solution. “Why not just stay in Penzance again tomorrow then? Do a shot at every pub you pass on the way here from Lands End, and then you’ll be ready for a proper Friday night at One & All!”

Found the entrance!

Probably shoulda taken that advice. Instead, I got my ass kicked on Day 1, courtesy of the hills of Cornwall. 

The route I’m choosing to go starts at the very southern tip of England (Lands End) to the very northern tip of Scotland (John O’Groats). But I’m taking the 1200 mile scenic route suggested by Sustrans rather than the 900 mile “get it done” route.

The Narrow Roads of Mousehole

Sure, I puttered around for a confusing mile or two looking for the secret entrance to my special route while others sped off down the main road, but it was worth it. Indeed my route was scenic today: local flora and quaint well-kept cottages line the lightly travelled pathways, views were breathtaking, and the small towns were mostly devoid of tourists. Traffic was sparse, and the roads were narrow to the point that if a vehicle was coming my way, one of us often needed to back up until there wass an area to safely pull-off. 

This type of surface will slow you down.

But that came with a price: many roads are poorly maintained, and the route frequently turned into footpaths. In 50 miles, I cycled through grass, sand, dirt, mud, gravel, and rocky paths adorned with mountains of horse crap. These are the types of roads where no one cares how steep they are, since they need not accommodate Mack trucks. Every hill that I hit (and I hit a lot), was a wall. 

Initially, I scoffed at my guidebook’s recommended 46 miles for the first day. 46 miles is nothing. But I figured with the diversion of starting the day with an extra 11 miles, 57 miles would be an acceptable goal. In fact I was so confident that I’d be at my destination with a pina colada in hand by 5 PM that I had no problem stopping to help a fellow American teacher from Missouri assemble her bike for 45 minutes or so while at Lands End. 

And I would’ve stayed longer, but Fritz suddenly appeared again. 

“You both cycle for MS charity?” Turns out the Missouri teacher was part of the MS benefit tour. It’s an organized, vehicle supported tour with many participants. I didn’t mention that I selfishly cycle for beer. 

I reminded Fritz that we had already met, but he clearly didn’t recognize me (and clearly didn’t give a shit). He had more important things to discuss. 

“I cycle across America for MS last year! 4,000 miles! Sixty days!”

Yes, Fritz, you told me this yesterday. And I’m still wondering what took you so long. 

Typical scenery throughout the day. 

Ironically, if it weren’t for Fritz, today would’ve taken even longer since I would’ve hung around a bit more. As it was, I didn’t hit the day’s destination town of Truro until 7:30. And when I saw that the campsite I planned on staying at was another 3.5 miles further, I had to stop and let that sink in. 3.5 miles is nothing normally. However, I had a feeling that it would be like the rest of the day’s ride, with a big ass steep horse-shit-coated hill in the way. And I was correct- a nasty 400 foot climb to end the day. 

My tent never looked that great
to begin with.

But I made it. And I was eager to set up my tent with fingers crossed that my cat hadn’t peed on it in the last two years while it sat in the closet. Of course, about a minute in to the setup, a tent pole snapped in half. 

Damn. 

Believe it or not there are some things that duct tape just can’t fix. Tent pole under high tension falls in that category. 

Paul, who is more competent than I, rigs up my tent while
I take pictures.

Luckily Paul, my neighbor for the night, helped me rig it together to get one last use out of it. “Bob’s your uncle!” was his victory shout when we got it to its current (sad) state. It was almost worth it just to hear that phrase spoken so genuinely.

I’m tired. I’m sore. But I’m smiling. And I’m happy. 

And I’m Safe & Sound. 

Great name for a pub. Dibs on that. 

Cheers. 

P.S. 

Apparently, Stephen King has decided to write road signs now.