Sunday dawned much brighter and clearer. The visibility had improved so much that you could even see the sky!
All my best riding gear (such as it is) is soaked and gritty. Time to change into costume B - my frighteningly Lycra cycling tights, and my Allstar baseball boots. Not cool, not attractve, but dry.
We set off up the same path as we used to start yesterday’s ride. It has a slight incline, a gritty surface, and some rocky bits. Every so often, there is a gully to be negotiated.
This is not working. My legs won’t respond, my balance is all off, and I am falling every hundred metres or so. The planned ride is even longer than yesterday, and I am intimidated. My latent tourettes rises to the surface with a vengeance.
We reach the crossroads at the top of the hill. Yesterday, we turned right down a long rocky descent. Today, we go straight on, retracing the last 5 km or so of yesterday’s ride. Downhill it is ten times easier. We have the unexpected luxury of a view, and even some sunshine! I maintain a steady pace, and at each obstacle I am greeted by a gallery of photographers, all eager to see me “not so much ride as plummet”.
I’m doing well, now, and this is feelgood riding - a big open space, plenty of time, and riding that is challenging enough to keep me focussed, but not overwhelming. I guess I average a fall every kilometre or so. The most spectacular (on which Rob was kind enough to remark in his post!) Has me rolling down a rocky slope, my right wristguard and helmet both throwing themselves intot he path of danger to protect the client. There is more swearing, but this is born of surprise and sudden pain, rather than frustration and low morale, and I quickly see the funny side.
Nevertheless, I do need to work on this whole potty mouth thing. It is a definite weakness in my unicycling game.
At the bottom of the hill is a strange obstacle comprising a sort of rocky threshold/culvert and a cobbled area. I ride over it alright but immediately UPD. Some people hop it, others roll it, and many fall. Young Tom does as well as any - on his 20! I cast my mind back to the crossroads, and wonder whether I can recall him engaged in a transaction with a gentleman with cloven hooves, dressed in red. But no - he’s just talented and indestructible.
We regroup around this obstacle. I eat ginger nut biscuits (the shop in Princetown had no Soreen). The others, to a man, eat Soreen - a little ostentatiously, in some cases. I reflect that it is important not to be bitter, and I smile with my customary good nature, and eat one of those disgusting stodgy “good for you” bars that stick to the roof of your mouth.
On down the hill to the bridge and the ford. I ride the bridge, but the bridge is not enough for the crazies in the gang. Joe tentatively rides into the ford, loses his nerve, hops round and bales out onto a dry-ish tussock. Then he tries again and rides through. The water is 12 inches (30 cm) deep or more, and his shoes get wet. Not to be outdone, Phil takes a deeper route, then again, and again. Neither he nor the crowd will be entirely satisfied until he falls in, so, obligingly, he does.
“With hindsight,” he later comments, “I should have taken my digital camera out of my trouser pocket before trying that.” It looks like his pictorial memories of the weekend will be confined to whatever he can sketch on a beer mat in the pub later.
Yesterday’s long ascent up the road is today’s steady descent, and soon we are on the level. We stop next to the village cross at Sheepstor near the church, and regroup. The others eat Soreen. Those who are not hungry just flaunt theirs. I nibble a dry biscuit.
I remove my Camelbak and notice something small land in the grass a few feet away. A minute or two later, I glance at my wrist-mounted GPS and see that one of the pins holding the strap is missing. I put two and two together, and we instigate a search of the village green. Many witty remarks about needles and haystacks are made, but the pin is nowhere to be found. The distraction is a nuisance, becauseit wastes time, and I had hoped to visit Watson’s grave in the churchyard.
Back on the unis, and we ride on to the edge of Burrator Reservoir, and round to the dam. Here we pause while some have the amusingly-named Willy’s ice creams. In contrast to yesterday, the weather is lovely, and all around us are holiday makers and bicyclists.
On from here along perfectly smooth tarmac, I go to adjust my foot position, and UPD in the most embarrassing fashion in front of the biggest crowd of the day.
Soon we reach a junction with a path that climbs up the hill to our left. Near this junction is a quite spectacular waterfall, and a few of us ride up the path at the side of the stream to have a closer look. We decide to session the area to the max, and for the next few minutes the woods echo to the whoops and screams of unicyclists nearly plummeting to their deaths in the pool at the foot of the waterfall.
Time to move on, and we set off up the steepish climb. The ground is uneven and sometimes loose, with occasional mud patches and puddles. There is a hairpin to the right and someone UPDs, bringing down two others. I ride through the ensuing melee and power on past pinewoods until I reach the top without a fall.
We regroup and session an awesome tree stump for a bit before moving on along a footpath that follows the line of an old railway track. This offers a variety of surfaces from muddy single track to deep wet grass, to mud and ballast. Rob is nervous because the path crosses a field where he was once chased by a bull, but today there are only benign cows or bullocks in the field. (I don’t look in that much detail, but they’re definitely not bulls!)
Soon we reach something which is more recognisably the old railway track. It climbs slightly, almost but not quite following the contours of the hill. The surface is rock and ballast, fairly easy to ride, but with occasional traps.
We stop near a gate, and someone points out there’s a nice little drop down onto the field to the left. Rob remarks that he’s never dared to risk the drop, and that riding up the hill at the side of it is one of his ambitions. What happens next is predictable: several of us, including Rob, ride down the drop then down the soggy grass field and try to ride back up. The drop itself is easier than it looks, but I doubt if I’d have done it without the chorus of well wishers encouraging me. The climb back is just a slog, with the trickiest bit just before the top. Determination fatigue kicks in and I UPD 3 or 4 metres short of my goal.
Onwards and upwards along the trackbed, gradually climbing. There is quite a bitter wind, but the sun is out and the views are good. Ahead of us is the Princetown Mast - a massive telecommunications mast which is visible from miles away. It is near to the bleak grey bulk of Princetown’s famous prison. This is the very prison from which the convict escaped in the The Hound of the Baskervilles. Princetown shamelessly exploits the Sherlock Holmes Heritage, with a life size statue of the great detective in the Dartmoor Visitor Centre. Dr. Watson, of course, is buried only a few miles away in the churchyard at Sheepstor.
