David Parker’s early autumn attempt at the Cornish 100k in September 2021 was a lonely ordeal. Struggling from a lack of practice, and the effects of a lingering virus, he laboured on jellied legs through the picturesque landscape of windswept coasts and hilly lanes. These are his impressions of a tough ride…
Arrivée155Spring2022
A Cornish 16
I KNEW I NEEDED TO GO SLOWLY at first as this was my first ride for a month. But people kept passing me in a whir of derailleur and tyre noise – a whisper of noise behind me and then the rear view of a rider already vanishing around the corner ahead. After 10km I could feel the lactic acid burn in my thighs and my breath rasping in my throat, escaping in wheezing gusts. I wanted to keep up but if I did I’d surely run out of steam long before the end. I could have done with a friendly wheel to latch on to but they kept escaping me every time the road tilted upwards. It tilted upwards more than I wanted, more often than my vanishing will power could manage. After 15km I was alone, no-one else passed and I passed no-one. This is generally how I do Audax rides, in a world of my own, wondering if I’m actually on the right route, berating myself for being so slow. Distant views of Falmouth Bay opened up from time to time, reminding me I could enjoy the scenery as well as suffer. By 33km I’d reached the second information point at St Antony, a tiny cluster of granite cottages around a creek. Beyond the encircling headland lay the
open Atlantic with its green and cream rollers but here all was calm – small boats moored, the first yachts pulled from the water for the winter ahead. I searched the hamlet for a road sign with the right information. There were two cyclists taking a photo and I realised that nobody doing an Audax would stop for photos. The hamlet was otherwise deserted. I wondered where everyone else had gone. Perhaps a banana would help? I couldn’t peel it while riding no-handed, and had to use one hand and my teeth. The banana may have helped but the flat lane that encircled the creek helped more. The sun emerged and the cerulean sky and deep green of the surrounding woods created a harmony of colour, the air bright, salt-washed and full of light. The first leaves of the autumn season skittered around the tyres, and thin skeins of gravel lay across the road left by the overtopping tide and storm waves from a couple of months ago. I was riding around the head of the creek when, with all the savageness that Cornwall can muster, the lane rose vertically, tree-shrouded, dark and shaded, twisting out of sight. The Wahoo said 20 per cent and I could believe it. I sucked in
as much breath as my meagre lungs would allow, pushing it out quickly again to allow time for another huge intake before my heart got any further up my throat. This was hurting. I could see the top and pushed harder to get there, but I’d been deceived. There was more of the hill visible ahead. The lane teased twice more before relenting, allowing me to pedal more easily, bike wobbling, legs trembling, and my heart out of control on what felt flat but was still five per cent. High hedges hid the view of the sea which I’d been glimpsing all morning. The next control was in 10k and the road, I hoped, would remain flat. Except this was Cornwall. Wahoo said “turn left” on to a steep descent, braking in a white-fingered embrace, gravel and leaves catching the wheels, trying to listen for cars coming the other way around blind bends. At the bottom, crawling slowly around the last bend I could see the lane rising in a mirror image of the hill I’d just descended. A sigh, bottom gear, brain in neutral and spin and puff, spin and puff. This was really hurting – and I still hadn’t seen anyone. Through St Keverne, a village made of an unnecessary number of hills, its granite
