Day Three - Exford to Long Ashton (basically Bristol)

Last night I was assaulted. It must have happened very quietly as I didn't wake up, but in the morning it felt as if I'd been worked over by an over-enthusiastic gang wielding rubber truncheons (with fairly poor aim).

Still, on the plus side we are out of Devon and have crossed the county line into Somerset. I used to like Devon: home of cream teas, happy holiday memories and beautiful beaches. Cross Devon on a bike however and it reveals its true nature; its dark and vicious side. Hill after flippin hill, after flippin hill.

Stunning, but tough on the legs

And they are nasty, steep little buggers too. So for much of yesterday, I was either flying down one at 45 mph (wondering how much protection a thin layer of lycra makes to your skin at that speed) or grovelling up an unforgiving incline at 2mph.

And here's the irritating thing, the roads appear to have been fiendishly designed so that right at the bottom of the hill, there is a sharp right angle, (no doubt thrown in for pure amusement value) over a narrow bridge, so that all that lovely downhill momentum (and if I can do nothing else noteworthy on a bike, I am built to generate momentum) is lost as you slam on your brakes. As you avoid launching yourself into the river (and I came pretty close on more than one white-knuckle descent), you are then faced with a wall of road ahead of you, which you have to tackle from a standing start. Often, farmers have been kind enough to allow their cattle to linger on these slopes long enough to cover them with a generous coating of slurry, which makes getting a bit of traction even harder. There are few more humiliating ways to take a tumble from your bike.

Those with cycling experience will know that it is always easier to cycle behind someone than ahead of them; in this way you take advantage of their slipstream. So I've been spending as much time as I can sheltering behind Steve. To be honest, there is not much of him to shelter behind. He's far too skinny, its like trying to hide behind a lamp-post. Still, it does help a little.

What doesn't help on the often wet roads we've been on, is that riding behind Steve, I'm continually covered in spray from his back wheel.

Ordinarily I'd baulk at the suggestion that I might want to get down on my hands and knees and repeatedly lick the road surface (favoured as it is with a wide variety of road-kill, manure, diesel and mud) but riding behind Steve, I've been treated to repeated mouthfuls of this stuff...

It was raining today, which was fitting really, since all the kit we carefully washed last night had not dried out. Getting into wet kit is low down on any list of happy things to do, particularly so when it hums a bit. And hum our kit did.

The reason was that the YHA drying room (we were staying at the youth hostel in Exford) didn't really dry anything and was pretty whiffy to boot, not unlike my sons rugby bag after he's left it full of used kit in his bedroom for a week. Or two. You get the idea.

The reason for the whiff is that among the many strange habits of YHA residents (are there are many strange habits, perhaps to be explored in another blog entry) many people don't bother with actually washing what they have been wearing (and sweating in) all day (socks, underpants included). They just hang them up to dry. And it seems people do not use their best smalls when staying at youth hostels As a result, the clothes line in the drying room would not disgrace a set from Tenko. You don't believe me, I can tell - so I've added a photo.

Bio-hazard!

Now imagine your clothes hanging along side these suspiciously yellowing, near unidentifiable undergarments. Not nice.

Today we faced the unforgiving road without our Director Sportive - my Dad - who had followed us for the first two days. He left last night, no doubt to do something more sensible instead. His help and moral support has been fantastic - cheers Dad, much appreciated.

Take away the rain (please, just take it away) and it was a pretty good day today. We crossed the 200 mile mark, I had faggots for lunch (we were in Somerset after all) and we climbed Cheddar Gorge. If you know Cheddar you won't need telling that a tat fest of toe-curling proportions has been allowed to blight the bottom of the gorge - what a shame given the beauty of the rest of the climb. But once you leave behind the themed tea-rooms, themed crystal shops, themed teddy bear shops, and themed fish and chip shops - and of course Cheddar cheese shops....the gorge is quite an experience.

Not a scrap of tat in sight....just Steve

It might have been even better had we not had to pedal through rivers of rainwater tumbling down the road.

Tonight we are staying with good friends of ours near Bristol. They are very fine athletes....Penny is about to enter the British Ironman in Wales, Giles was fresh from competing in a 12 hour time trial (that's 12 hours - alone - riding against the clock) in which he pedalled an astounding 272 miles. Dropping in to see them both, even having cycled from Lands End, is not unlike bagging a Munro and then spending the night with the Bonningtons.....

But at least they knew what to expect when we arrived, the washing machine was primed and ready, I had a hot bath and the beers were in the fridge, the curry on the cooker. Perfect; though tomorrow on a bike, after a belly-full of beers and boona should make for an interesting combination.

I'll let you know how it goes.....