It was done
464 miles
8 Days
Every club in the Devon League on bicycle
Riders: Keith Barlow, Victor Kandampully, David Burke, Andy Ware, Phillipa Davey, Bethan Davey, Ben Ferrao, Callum Whittaker.
Many thanks to: Plymouth Cycle Scene, Helen Barlow, Jo Evans, Donna Ware, Bideford CC, Exmouth CC, Sandford CC, Upottery CC, Shaldon CC and Lizzie Fulner, Alphington CC, Big Peaks Outdoor Pursuits (Ashburton). We could not have done it without you.
Victor's very own tour report below. It is worth the read.
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Tour de Devon The story of the journey round every club in the Devon League.
DAY ONE: Plymouth Cricket Club to Ashburton.
“there’s lots of hills in Devon” Anon.
Basking in pleasant early-morning spring sunshine we assembled at Plymouth Cricket Club to prepare to depart. Vic tried to figure out how to use the hi-tech gears on his bike (necessitating an embarrassed phone call to Plymouth Cycle Scene), while Philippa and Beth perfected their tandem routine. Meanwhile, a furrow-browed Dave was flicking through a worryingly large sheaf of laminated maps, which he had cunningly attached to the handlebars of his bike. This, it transpired, was the route for the entire week. It was a daunting sight.
Once we’d all been photographed from every angle by Abbo and the rest of the paparazzi, it was time to depart. Wobbling gently across the car park, cheered to the echo by our faithful supporters, we set off through the Plymouth streets to Plymstock, our first port of call.
At Plymstock, we established our regular routine; taking a couple of pictures to document the journey, drinking from our water-bottles to maintain fluid levels, and eating something to keep up blood-sugar levels. My jelly babies were laughed to scorn by Keith and Dave, who had dextrose energy tablets, and who sarcastically wondered if I had any barley sugar or mint humbugs too.
The banter having started, we set off for Plympton; and enjoyed the ride along the Saltram bank, whilst the weather held. On the way to Cornwood however, the weather turned inhospitable, as a shower of rain soon turned into icy hail which bounced painfully off bare arms and legs, encouraging us to race on and take shelter.
At Cornwood, we were greeted by three of the members with a bafflement approaching incomprehension. When we explained, we were met with a blank stares, whilst one of the gentlemen took it upon himself to confirm what we were about to find out; that there were indeed very many hills in Devon.
On leaving for Ivybridge, we soon found ourselves struggling up one of the hills skilfully identified by the men of Cornwood. But, despite the inclement weather, we persevered in the knowledge that Helen Barlow was waiting for us in Ivybridge with enough food to feed the hordes of Genghis Khan (so long as they were really keen on pasta, flapjacks, summer-fruit cordial and salt-tablets.)
Somehow, Dave had picked up a puncture, so we replaced the inner-tube at Ivybridge, and donned wet-weather clothes before pushing on to Kingsbridge. As we were struggling up the hills to Kingsbridge, the hail returned, and it was soon apparent that Keith was struggling on his mountain-bike, because the suspension was absorbing too much of his energy as he tried to power along. Under the shelter of friendly trees just before Kingsbridge, we forced Keith to stretch his battered leg muscles, shoved Jelly Babies (by now, much appreciated) down his throat and organised a bike swop between Dave and Keith to share the difficulties of the bike around .
15 miles later, it felt like we’d gone up more hills than we could count, and the dizziness of exhaustion was taking over. Turning off the main road to go to Dartington & Totnes, we cruised along the side-road before discovering that we were ‘lost’ and stopping…about 5 meters before the ground would have come into full view. But when Dave saw the sightscreens (after nearly phoning Dartmoor Rescue ), Keith’s face left no-one in any doubt that probably no-one in the whole history of the world had been happier to (finally) see the home ground of Dartington & Totnes CC.
From there it was a short ride to Ashburton, where we left the bikes at Big Peaks Bike Shop, and returned to Plymouth, bruised, aching, proud, and wondering how the hell we were going to get through the next 7 days.
DAY TWO: Ashburton to Shaldon Optimists
“Get on your bike and look for Burke” V.Kandampully Esq.
Day two saw us basking in glorious sunshine as we set off to Ipplepen through the long, sweeping rural lanes, speeding through our rural idyll at a spectacular pace. The idyll was smashed just outside Ipplepen, when Victor whistled down a hill, misread a bend, decided it would be suicide to attempt to turn on a road surface of cowdung and loose gravel, and deliberately and unceremoniously smashed his bike into a hedge, to the uproarious amusement of Dave, Keith, and a shellshocked, startled Friesian cow, who took one look at Victor and set off at a brisk trot, mooing in disgruntled fashion .
More cautious, we proceeded to Stoke Gabriel, where, unbeknownst to us, Helen Barlow’s innocent request to be directed to the ground had resulted in an argument between a husband and wife as to whether the ground was on the left or right of the road– an argument that was satisfied by a £100 wager on which of them was right. They were last seen driving off towards the ground to settle their bet. We can exclusively reveal that the husband was correct; the ground was on the left – but we do not wish to speculate as to the current state of their marriage. While we were refilling water-bottles at Stoke Gabriel the skies clouded over and bursts of rain made us fear the worst. But, by Brixham, the weather dried up and we zipped down the hill to Paignton to rendezvous with Helen’s pasta and flapjacks once again.
Pushing up the hill to *censored*ington, where we rested to assuage the demands of Dave’s knee, we found a plethora of tourists enjoying the spring sunshine at *censored*ington Court, where the Corinthians have their small, gloriously idiosyncratic pitch. The square itself slopes gently, not unlike Peverell Park; but the hill to the pavilion , sloping up through the outfield, with a couple of trees inside the boundary, is quite something!
Quite something, too, was the advice given to us as we left *censored*ington, while pushing our bikes up the second half of a 1 in 4 hill. A learned gentleman in a silver car slowed as he passed, opened his window, and advised us: “You’m should be pedallin’! That’s whoy yom’ve got gears.” Keith, thighs burning, eyes bulging, forearms throbbing, face snarling, looked quite ready to do the gentleman a serious injury until it was hastily explained to him how unfair it would be to risk further damaging the gentleman’s brain.
Stopping for pictures at Barton and Chelston, we proceeded to Torquay, where Victor attempted to follow Dave and Keith in mounting a 4 millimeter kerb only to spectacularly fail to do so, splattering himself ignominiously all over the Torquay pavement as he and his bike followed sharply divergent courses . Once Dave and Keith had stopped laughing, we proceeded to Babbacombe’s Pringle shaped pitch; then moved on to Kingskerswell and Abbotskerswell, where we met Gary Day, creator of the Redback Cricket bats which are used by Neil Han*censored*, and various other Devon players. Generously, Gary donated one of his best new bats to be raffled off this summer- it now hangs above the bar where the club’s batsmen stare at it with ill-concealed desire in their eyes.
From Abbotskerswell, we wended our way through Newton Abbot, and, thighs aching, pumped up the enormous hill to Shaldon, where the Optimists have their picturesque ground on the Waterfront. Collapsing on the grass in front of the pavilion, we were pleased to meet Liz, the Shaldon Optimists’ secretary, who helped us store our bikes in their equipment store, and offered us enormous moral and practical support for our cause. Repairing to the adjacent pub for a quick pint, we licked our wounds and contemplated the morrow.
DAY THREE: Shaldon Optimists to Alphington
“Any chance of Chagford dropping out of the league before mid-afternoon?” D.Burke Esq.- hourly.
The third day saw us joined by Andy Ware; who brought a new toy: a milometer which would tell us how far we’d travelled and how fast we’d been going. Dave Burke looked envious at being out-gadgeted.
Finding an early-morning burst of energy, we shot through Dawlish & Teignmouth and Kenn, and after scaling an unhealthily high hill, we rendezvoused with Jo Evans, our supporting helper du jour, in Chudleigh, whose members were quite alarmed when we walked in the front door. When we had explained ourselves, though, they were very solicitous; offering coffee and tea while we ate our lunch in the pavilion, and unearthing the Chudleigh CC flag, which they asked us to hold in the photograph as a gesture of their solidarity with our cause of keeping cricket at Peverell Park.
As we travelled to Bovey Tracey, it started to rain again, much to our vocal disgust. But the rain was to have amusing consequences when we left, cycling through the spray in centre of Bovey. A car changed direction, causing Dave and Keith to brake suddenly. Vic’s eyes widened, and he too pumped the brake levers, but answer came there none. Skidding along, Vic was faced with a stark choice. To the right, an oncoming Land Rover. To the left, a pavement with a high kerb, a line of metal bollards and a stone wall. In front, the redoubtable figure of Keith Barlow. Somehow, Vic managed to bounce his front tyre off Keith’s calf, slowing himself down, before driving the bike into a bollard and jumping from the saddle onto his feet. After Dave and Andy had performed cunning running repairs to Vic’s brakes, we continued on to Lustleigh.
Finally finding Lustleigh’s chocolate box ground, we refilled our water-bottles with Jo Evans, who assured us that, if we followed the way she came into the village, there was no particularly steep hill on the way out of Lustleigh. It seems that very steep hills are somewhat less noticeable in cars, as, to Burkey’s palpable disapproval, we soon found ourselves pedalling up what seemed like a small cliff.
Chagford was a good distance away, and pedalling up the slope, into the wind made it a tough slog; but we actually made sensationally good time. The primary reason for this was that no-one wanted to waste their hard-earned momentum by stopping for a rest; so we persevered up to Chagford; where Andy Ware courageously offered to go into a pub in order to ask directions. Meanwhile, Dave was drawing on Jo’s car windscreen with his finger to leave her a message.
From Chagford, we knew that we just had to get to Alphington to end the day. The only problem was that Alphington was still 16 miles away. Setting off, we soon came to what we dubbed “The stupidly enormous hill”, which wended its way up a seemingly interminable rise along a narrow country lane. We did try to cycle all the way up it, and failed in utter ignominy. Keith crunched his gears and swore in spectacular fashion. Vic wobbled along without much momentum. Dave, preserving his knee, did the sensible thing and got off as soon as reasonably possible. Even Andy’s first day energy only managed about 70 meters before the combination of slope and horrible road surface got the better of him, so we dismounted and began to push up the hill. The good news: the sun was out. The bad news: we appeared to be on an enormous uphill treadmill with virtual reality surroundings. Surely no hill could be both this steep and this long! Keith’s face every time we turned a corner only to find more uphill was heartbreaking to behold. Meanwhile, Dave looked like he was wondering whether we’d taken a wrong turning somewhere and found ourselves in the French Alps, and Vic was rapidly developing bathmophobia.
Finally, as we reached the plateau at the top, we re-straddled our saddles and set off again, only for Keith to pick up a puncture from the road surface. After quite a lot of kerfuffling, Dave and Andy heroically managed to patch the punctured inner tube, but it had cost us plenty of time, and we were now heading to Alphington against the clock. They say that what goes up must come down, and so it was that we found ourselves gritting our teeth as we nervously edged down the other side of this hill, down a 1 in 4 hill, on a damp, muddy road. Vic lagged behind having taken the time to light a few candles to the patron saint of cyclists who fear imminent death. Boris Johnson was evidently watching over us, though, as everyone’s brakes worked well enough to bring us to the bottom in safety. Back on the main road, we had a long, sweeping climb to complete; and, now thankful for the return to solid tarmac, we pumped our legs round to carry us up the incline. Our reward was a solid 4-5 miles of glorious downhill into Alphington, wind whistling in our faces, where we stored the bikes in Alphington’s kindly-provided changing rooms and headed back to Plymouth to prepare for the overnighter in Exmouth to come.
DAY FOUR: Alphington to Exmouth & overnight stay.
“I need an arse-transplant. He needs a brain transplant” C.Whittaker Esq.
As Day Four dawned, we were joined by the effervescent Callum “Monkey” Whittaker, who turned up with a mountain bike with enormous, knobbled tyres and the most massive saddle that anyone had ever seen. He looked confident. He asked us if we were jealous of this saddle, which would, he asserted, surely ensure the comfort of his posterior . The veterans exchanged amused, knowing glances and made no comment. At Exeter Civil Service, we were posing for a photo when the world’s most unfriendly postman came over and told us this was “all private property.” We pushed on to Exeter CC, who were much more welcoming; and kindly took a picture of all of us in front of their pavilion. At this stage, riding around Exeter, I was becoming increasingly grateful for my i-pod, which was saving me from the wise and confident dicta of C.Whittaker Esq. This, he pronounced, was “a piece of piss, bey.” The veterans exchanged glances once again. Shortly afterwards, while riding up a tiny incline, Monkey enquired as to whether any hills in Devon were much steeper than the one we were on. A wry smile played around Dave’s face, but the question went unanswered.
For once, the weather held nicely, and the day was pleasant. Unlike the day before, the day was marked by human fraility rather than mechanical failure. Unfortunately, Callum soon suffered badly from chafing, which necessitated a quick change of his saddle at Clyst St George, while Dave’s knees were bound up with gaffer tape and sticking plaster to try and alleviate his suffering. For once, the weather held nicely, and the day was pleasant. Callum and Dave battled through the pain, and we visited Topsham St James, Countess Wear, and lists of Clysts , as well as the picturesque grounds of Woodbury and Whimple.
Between Feniton and Honiton, Keith, Andy and Vic zoomed off, and led the group up a mile and a half of hedge-lined, twisty, hilly road. Reaching a flat spot, Vic looked round to discover to his considerable alarm that neither Andy, nor Dave, nor the sore-arsed Callum was anywhere to be seen. Only Keith remained. So together, they waited. And waited. The phone rang: “Lads, you’ve gone the wrong way, you should have turned at the bottom of the hill.” With bulging eyeballs, spitting sotto voce curses, Keith and Vic coasted down the hill to find the rest of the group. Vic carefully examined the signpost (which made no reference to Honiton), and had some particularly cutting things to say about “a load of bloody yokels who can’t even write Honiton on a pigging signpost”
After pushing up an alternative hill, through a thickly wooded forest, we whizzed down the hill to Honiton, setting a new top speed of 42 miles per hour; an experience enlivened when Dave Burke, startled by a passing articulated lorry, swerved dramatically off the A30 onto the bumpy grass verge at over 30 miles an hour. Fortunately, Dave managed to retain control of the bike, and we reached Honiton in one piece. While we were taking the photo, though, it was noticed that 80% of cyclists were holding their own arse whilst wearing a pained expression. A brief detour to the nearest pub was in order; to allow Callum to rest his buttocks and to allow Messrs Burke, Ware and Barlow to- um, avail themselves of the facilities provided .
The barmaid looked quite surprised when 5 large men in cycling helmets and lycra entered the pub; and even more surprised at the unseemly rush that occurred when it was discovered that there was only one cubicle. My personal favourite, though, was Andy Ware striding up to the bar and ordering 5 halves of lager shandy. The barmaid turned to get the glasses, and by the time she’d turned back around, Andy was nowhere to be seen, not to return for 15 minutes, and the door to the toilets was swinging back and forth like a saloon bar door in a clichéd Western cowboy flick.
Once the hilarity and shandy had been consumed, we found to our dismay that we had to go back up the hill we’d just whizzed down before heading on to Exmouth. “Don’t worry, lads” offered Vic, optimistically, “it’s just this one long hill, then another smaller hill, then the last 8 miles are flat.” The long hill and the smaller hill were indeed present, but the last 8 miles were, emphatically, not flat. Tempers began to fray. Keith was to be heard periodically muttering various imprecations, amongst which were the words “Victor”, “flat”, and “bloody idiot.” Monkey desired an innovative piece of surgery: the “arse transplant”. And then, just as we were wondering if we’d ever get there, we turned down the hill to Exmouth, and found the attractive ground where we were to spend the night.
“Did ‘e (indicating Andy) ‘ave permission to take this T-shirt” asked the gorilla-brained oaf, once we’d returned to the pub. “Yes” said the barmaid. The gorilla-brained oaf tried to look apologetic, confused, contrite and hurt all at once, and ended up looking rather like a constipated simpleton. The landlady, evidently worried, intervened to apologise; saying that the chap was (a) completely “out of order” (b) not her boyfriend (c) a bit of a complete psycho .
So we went back to sleep in the pavilion at the cricket ground with a story to tell, and the slight nervousness that comes from knowing that you’ve just made a complete psycho look a complete idiot in front of his ex-girlfriend, and that you don’t have the key to the door.
Luke Minett came up to Exmouth to pick up Callum, who was walking with a fascinating gait by this time, and we all headed to bed, tired and exhausted from our long day. So it was quite a shock to be jolted awake in the pitch blackness of the middle of the Exmouth pavilion by some strange noises.
A loud “GAAAR!”
And a loud “AAAARRRGGGHH!!”
Andy Ware leapt about 6 inches in the air from a completely prone position and started scrabbling around in the darkness for his claw-hammer. Vic convulsed wildly on the floor, trying and failing to find the zip for his sleeping bag. Dave Burke, bizarrely, slept on untroubled. Keith, still apparently asleep, continued to pound the living daylights out of his physio bed and pillow and give voice to his innermost feelings.
A louder “URRRAAGH!!!”
Then he rolled over and started to snore again. Vic and Andy, hearts pumping, adrenaline racing, exchanged glances.
“Andy?” whispered Vic
“Yeh?” replied Andy
“Will you hit him with the bloody claw-hammer, or shall I?”
WRITE UP OF DAYS 5-8 SOON TO COME.
WATCH THIS SPACE.
Plymouth Cricket Club
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