At Home Nathaniel sits on a spike
As day four dawned bright and early we crawled down for breakfast and sat mercifully still in a beautiful conservatory overlooking a multicolour mature garden which looked a little like it had been affected by an explosion in a paint factory. The sun was warming and the cereal and toast we were offered disappeared rather nicely. My body didn't seem too bothered about being force fed this morning, and judging by the amount Julie consumed she wasn't having too many problems either. The only real problems at the moment were the nagging pains in my backside from sitting on the wooden chair and the knowledge that 200 more km separated us from the end of the route (at this time we were pretending we were only going to Bristol in order to prevent mental breakdown). Finally we accepted the inevitable and the peace was broken by Julie standing up and heading for a changing/packing session. Three minutes later (we weren't carrying that much!!) we stumbled out of the house smelling rather badly and stared at the two bikes waiting for us in the garage. I can't say there were many feelings of oneness with the bike, but already I knew it would get me as far as I needed to go. As I threw my stiff leg over the crossbar and my arse lowered onto the saddle I was surprised to find that whilst the pain wasn't much improved it certainly wasn't any worse (not that it COULD have got much worse'). A quick test peddle down the drive provided the information I was expecting: Legs pretty numb and (what I foolishly thought at this point) impossibly tired.
Turning suspicious
A quick 'slow puncture' fix and chain oil by Julie allowed me some grace before we headed back to Barnstaple for our first city encounter of the day. As predicted our 1:50000 map/city nightmare struck again, but we were a little more prepared this time and carefully examined every potential turn suspiciously. One hour later we were cycling through suburbs gently sweating as another day of clear blue sky forced us to pant and vent as we climbed our first gentle incline of the day in 25 degrees of heat at 10 A.M. Up to this point the biking had been secondary to survival. But we had made it through the first few days of Cornwall and I was secretly starting to allow myself the luxury of thinking more that 10 minutes ahead. What was the riding going to be like today? For the first time I found myself hoping for some quality rather than just quantity, and maybe a little wilderness' Bald top and bottom
One hour later I was knee deep in mud thanking god for my crud catchers as I slid ever faster down the one in three incline of a broken (think destroyed') tarmac track. I tried desperately to remember my Nigel Page training day and cursed my stupid wishes for more 'quality''weight back, don't touch the front break, lift the front over the obstacles, don't grip the bars to hard'..THUMP, WHANG, GRUMPH' The usual series of bizarre noises were emitted from me and bike as a combination of bottomed out front suspension, pot holes, egg sized wash out boulder patches, and slippy mud contributed to an ever faster slide fest. Hmmm' good job I was running a nearly bald set of trailblasters' otherwise I could probably have touched the brakes, slowed to a stop and walked. What fun would that have been' As it was, braking merely produced even scarier sliding events than not braking. My sunglasses became mud splattered and as tree cover became complete my vision was reduced to rough images of dim shapes. Technique went predictably pear shaped and I hung on grimly. It was only a question of time before the inevitable happened and a friendly tree root stuck its extra slippy fingers out into the track for a laugh. I didn't really know much about the front sliding out from under me. I just seemed to continue down the hill in a jumble of legs, forks, wheels, mud and blood, when I finally came to halt I looked a right mess. I thought quickly about two options. Play for the sympathy vote, tell Julie I was seriously hurt and get a ride home in an ambulance (I believe this particular reaction can be attributed to a mental state known as MAT, or male attention tendency), or pretend to be 'ard and jump back on the bike. If I hurried she'd never know I'd come off and I wouldn't get the piss taken mercilessly for the next week (the well known antidote to MAT). By this time the adrenaline was flowing and actually it had been one hell of a descent so far'. I quickly lifted the bike, removed my sunglasses and pushed off. Immediately we were back into a high-speed slide fest. But this time I could see, and I was ready. The next tree root that kicked out the front end was met with an unclipped, heel-jarring, stab of my right foot, motocross style. It popped the bike upright and I careered down into a huge mud puddle and slithered to a halt. What a ride! I looked at my ODO. Just over 1km of downhill. Looking at my maps I can now see that the drop was just under 300m. Not far off my predicted one in three. I'm not sure about the 'white road' status tho' I'd like to see a car try and get down there in one piece!!! Julie arrived 30 seconds later equally covered in mud and looked pretty dishevelled as she landed dead centre of the puddle and flopped to a halt. This trip was surely turning out to be varied'.
In The Jungle the quiet Jungle...
The slog out of the valley was as painful and long as the descent had been fast and exhilarating. My hip twinged, my grazes oozed and the slippy surface gave no grip to tyres or shoes, just to add insult to injury the heat was making the humidity feel more like the Nicaraguan Jungle than Devon. As I finally exited the tree cover at the top of the hill I stopped where a track joined a small grass walled lane and 2 minutes later met a family out on a sunny holiday walk. The looks they gave said it all really. Bearing in mind it was mid morning in Devon, the sky was clear crystal blue, and it was at least 25 degrees in the shade I suppose it was a natural reaction for the toddler to start crying when an exhausted, blood oozing bog monster smelling a little like an open sewer (the mud had been a bit stagnant when I fell in') looked in startled surprise through white squinting panda eyes whilst it hopped around on one leg trying desperately to pull up a pair of recently wrung out cycling shorts which had become entangled in its muddy cleats. 'Er, afternoon!!!', I wrongly offered as a friendly gesture hoping in vain they hadn't heard the blue air ten seconds ago as I wrestled with my shorts. 'Lovely day!!!'. I hopped unsteadily back and forth and my nob dangled gently in the breeze. Apparently they didn't think so, and walked on sheltering their child from the strange man. In retrospect it would have been better if my bike had been in view, at least then they might have understood and not thought quite so badly of me. As it is at least I have the satisfaction of knowing that at least one day in the child's holiday was eventful'.. 
Piste off
The view ahead had been opening out for a while as we crested the rounded hill and now we could finally see a mercifully flat and open looking moor ahead of us. A dotted black track wound across it on the map and our hopes of a quick ending to the day helped to raise our spirits and our speed. The moorland was a glorious place to be. The smell of warm grass and heather mingled with the heat of the day and I would have given a million pounds to be able to lie down and sleep. We looked at our watches and (luckily as it turned out) decided to push on for a while first. Almost immediately the track disappeared and we were reduced to carrying the bikes over featureless moor on a compass bearing. The waist high step became the norm over the tussock grass and both tempers and hip flexors began to suffer. One and a half hours later we had ridden for less than 10 minutes. My hip flexors were destroyed and we were running low on water. Our cut down maps were sadly narrow in this area and although we could see a road to our South it disappeared off the map and provided no positive 'get-out' opportunity. 30 minutes later the time and water situation forced us to make the uncomfortable decision to head off the moor, off the map, and try to find a rideable way around and some water. 
Who ate all the pies?
As soon as we had made the decision and moved our compass bezel 90 degrees the riding improved massively. In 15 minutes we had ridden a swift grassy downhill section and were on a tarmac road. Julie was ecstatic about her new Marzocchi Marathon Bomber forks which she claimed were the most revolutionary things she had ever encounted on a bike since wheels were invented. I was just pleased to be on a road, albeit an unmapped one. We rode to the next junction and sat wondering what to do next. We hadn't seen another person for hours and were pretty unsure of the direction to take when a rather unlikely event occurred and a nice policeman appeared and asked if we were ok (who says there's never one around when you need one!) Two minutes later we had directions to a shop, and a road section back onto the moor after the walking section. A Result!! A monster downhill road section saw me hitting nearly 80km/h and unsurprisingly took us quickly to a small village. The shop was great and as it was 5 o'clock it provided a much needed meal. Huge Cornish pasties and a whole freshly made apple pie disappeared in no time, as did a few pints of milk. I sat contentedly (euphemism for 'over fed and feeling slightly sick and stiff') as we watched over the green of a beautiful Devon village in the afternoon glow of a baking summers day. My skin prickled with dried sweat and slight sunburn and I knew it had been a great day. If only we didn't have a 250 metre climb back onto the moor top'.but you cant have everything!
Green land with matching Julie
A slow crawl up a monster incline brought us back up to the top of the hill on a small road. The sun was finally losing its heat and the glow of evening was settling over the buzzing heather. In the distance the sea was gently glinting a bright blue and contrasting sharply with the green heather and implausibly red soil. I was speechlessly drinking in the view feeling like a very privileged human being when Julie arrived looking a little green. It had been a vicious hill after such a large meal and I was only too happy to rest for 10 minutes as we sat in this empty wonderland. We had a further 20 km before the hotel was due and in keeping with the scenery the last few miles of the days trails were spectacular. The red soil contrasted sharply with the blue sea and green foliage. The hills were sharp and pointed and reminded me more of the Guatemalan Highlands than the Dorset I thought I knew, and finally for perfection a few drops of rain finally damped down the dust and provided that unique smell of summer rain as we coasted over empty flat single track trails through beautiful scenery to the seaside and our swimming pool clad hotel. Things had definitely taken a turn for the better. We were both seriously tired, but we knew we had made the right decision to drop off the moor for food and water. The day had been a big climber (5500ft) and although we hadn't been fast we had made it. My arse had finally numbed past the point of no return and as we walked stiffly to our dinner booking at a pub down the coast from the hotel I was pleased with my choice of bike. Perfect for the job you could say'
Tomorrow would be our last day and the warm up ride would be finished. After a day off we would enter the first serious stages of South and mid Wales before crossing the light and dark peak districts and heading to Manchester ready for the serious hard core of the last 10 days. Never keen to let an opportunity of free accommodation pass us by we had lengthened the last day in the SouthWest in order to allow us to stop in the middle of Bristol with Julie's sister. At the time of preparation this seemed like a fine idea both saving us money and allowing us a short break for free as we rested our battered bodies and repaired our bikes. When I finally dragged my backside from a comfy bed at the 7:30am alarm any extra added miles had turned from a small red squiggle on the map to a gargantuan undertaking. Whose idea, I belligerently demanded, had it been to add a further 20 km to the days route'.I was sleepily reminded that I had been such a tight arse with the finances that I had refused to pay for two days at the specified hotel and so to shut up whinging. What could I say'..
Breakfast came and went and my legs felt as bad as they had for the last three days. The difference today was twofold. Firstly, when I awoke I knew that tomorrow I was going to ride precisely zero km, up precisely zero hills. Secondly, and perhaps most significantly, I knew that no matter how bad my legs felt now they would pedal as I demanded, and not just for an hour or two. If I told them to pedal for 12 hours (and I ate enough Farls') they would do just that. I had gained the knowledge that despite my worst fears I could currently keep pedalling almost indefinitely if I had to. There was almost a spring in my (slightly crippled) step as we cycled along the shore of the clean, blue, Bristol Channel with a cooling breeze fanning my golden locks whilst birds tweeted in the trees. OK, OK, so I'm bald, they were seagulls, and the Bristol Channel smelt a bit like sewerage but you get the idea, it was the first day that had started positively. 
Wild horses drag us away
A quick stop at a small village called Watchet for supplies led us directly onto a crossing of the Quantocks through some truly beautiful high moorland scenery. The climb was hard and the tracks were rocky but it was early in the day and they were clearly defined and fast. We stopped only once to make a slight detour in order to avoid disturbing a sleeping wild horse and her foal and had the pleasure of watching the two of them lying undisturbed as we slipped quietly by. The morning flew by in a haze of perfectly made navigational decisions, stunning scenery, sweet smelling heather, and beautiful weather. The hills and the tracks rolled away under our wheels and by lunchtime we had descended off the tops and into the town of Bridgewater and a Morrison's binge. Our final afternoons ride was partially road but contained no few hills. The rolling nature of the landscape provided plenty of climbing, some on bike, some off. Of particular note was the steep 200m push (1 in 3) up the side of Cheddar Gorge on slippy limestone after we had already covered 90km and done 6000ft of climbing. By the time we reached the top of the climb we were both predictably knackered, but as we caught our breath we entered into a secret world a little like the Venezualan 'land that time forgot'. The scenery on the ridge top was different to the valleys and was green and fanned by a clean wind from the sea. I could feel the sweat of the covered climb evaporate as the 2 km of small country lanes led us to the start of a final small incline and the summit of the ridge, it was just after 5pm and although the view from the flat summit was a remarkable 360 degree vista of Lundy Island, South/Mid Wales, the real gem was yet to come. Heading North and down the back of the 250m ridge we had just climbed was an open grassy slope with a tight, smooth and clean single track pointing directly down into some tree cover 500m away. If the last 2km of climbing had been pleasant but dull the descent was exactly the opposite.
Speed Kills
I waited for Julie to arrive, rose from my seated viewpoint, clipped in, and the ride began. After a short while the track widened to a mingling mix of dirt trails flowing like an unravelling rope down the hillside. I picked my line, let go of my brakes and held on for a fast ride. Ten seconds later my backside was as far back as I could get it (should have dropped my seat'), I was trying to keep my arms unlocked to let the front wheel find is own route along the rocky track, but my muscles were tired and my left forearm was becoming rapidly pumped from the continued pressure required to stem my speed. I needed to lock my arms and put all 8 fingers around the bars to control the bike properly, but I dare not let go of the brakes and I knew that locking my arms wouldn't help my bikes ability to handle the terrain. For the second time today I was going too fast, out of control, down a hill that was far too steep and complex for my ability. But, the sun warmed my back and the view continued to pull me down ever faster until I finally entered the trees and passed a family at a non too sensible speed. The game changed to a familiar one. Survival. I stopped worrying about my arms as the adrenaline kindly took care of them for me, and instead I lifted my eyes and forced them to pick a path far ahead of my front wheel as if I was riding my motorbike over the desert. By this point I was just beginning to feel I could trust my bike to take care of the terrain, and so it proved as my eyes flicked back and forth, up and down. A little front lift here, weight the bike, lift the bike, back brake, weight back, and so it continued, weaving in and out of the trail line over and over and over until we popped out of the bottom onto a level forest trail. I have no idea how high my heart rate was when I reached the bottom, but I'm pretty sure it wasn't healthy! The metallic taste in my throat told a story of its own too, as I painfully unwound my left hand from the grip and flexed it against the lactic acid. Julie arrived grinning like a Cheshire cat and we sat and basked in the adrenaline and endorphins until we started to chill in the evening shade of the trees. The final 25km section over yet another ridge (this time on the road) was as hard as any climb to date. Not only were my legs refusing to turn but my hip was grumbling and my left hand was set like a claw and increasingly stiff. As Bristol finally came into view I remembered some of the old shortcuts I used to take whilst dispatch riding in the city and guided us towards my favourite pub, usefully no more than 5 mins ride from Julies Sisters house. After 117km our day was nearly at an end. We were both happy and relaxed as we cruised through the quiet streets looking forward to our waiting dinner. 
Pssssssssssss
Typically life's just never quite that simple. Over the last 3km Julie had 3 punctures caused seemingly by worn rim tape allowing the tube to rub on the nipples of the spokes. Why this happened here after 500km we had no idea. Why it happened three times when we had only three spare tubes, we have no idea. But we thanked out lucky stars as we rolled up to the front of the address we had been given. It felt like the summer holidays when I was a kid. It may only have been one day off, and we may only have been cycling for 5 days but JESUS I felt like I needed a holiday!