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I got up at a good time today and was organised with breakfast on the way when the others appeared. After a couple of crumpets and coffee I set off ahead of them with the intention of getting up the humungous hill out of Boscastle without holding the guys up. Determined to work at my fitness I set off cycling, until once again my pedals failed me. After a wild wobble, I recovered, de-cleated, and discovered that this time my chain had come off. Not having a clue how to resolve the issue, I decided to enjoy the sunshine and continued at a leisurely pace, walking up the hill until I got to a suitable place to stop and wait for help. Beautiful views, but so much for a good head start. 

This time Arthur was my knight in shining armour as he good naturedly showed me how to put a chain back on, looking as though he firmly believed if it happened again I’d be right on it. 

Made a sterling effort to keep up with everybody up the rest of the hill, and after a very short ride along the A39 (a road which should be avoided), we headed off to follow the rather hilly coast road. We soon came to a very slow, nerve-racking descent of a 1 in 3 that snaked precariously along the cliff edge and seemed to go on for miles before we discovered that nestled in the tiny bay at the bottom was none other than Milook. Hurrah! Here we were at the start of the day, facing the biggest hill in the universe. I was slightly relieved that even the men didn’t attempt to cycle it. 

Bert and I somehow walked up the hill slower than the other two, so they missed his second fall of the trip as we got to the steepest bend in the road. Being untrained in such things, I hadn’t realised that the side of the road with the tightest bend was also the steepest section, so naturally going for the shortest route I suddenly found myself pushing up what was quite possibly a 1 in 1 and not actually going anywhere. As my body became almost parallel with the ground in my effort to progress, the bike began to fall away from me in the direction of the downhill bend and Bert whipped out his phone to take photos. With one superhuman effort, I managed to recover and get past the offending bend, whilst expressing my discontent with Bert’s actions. But his comeuppance was already upon him: having edged too close to the same bend to get (what he thought) the funniest photo possible, a car came chugging up the hill and temporarily distracted, over he went, backwards once again and with bike on top, adding a matching gash to the opposite knee. 2-0. 

We continued along a beautiful coastal road, sweeping up and over plenty of hills until we arrived at Bude at 11:04am. Arthur pointed out that we were meant to be arriving here at 11am and were late. I was very impressed that I was only 4 minutes behind schedule after the myriad of steep hills I’d managed already. Calum, who clearly had not been late, had already headed off to the beach to take photos, because his dad’s warship had been moored here. So we found a little café and sat outside eating pasties. Three of us played on our phones while Arthur stared into space. We stayed far too long. We eventually set off over more hilly roads until getting to the border of Cornwall and Devon. Arthur had kindly warned us in his route plan that “this was a through road but is now a footpath, may need to walk a few hundred metres”. 

Hmmm. 

Cycling down Darracott Hill to the border was a nightmare in itself; really steep downhill along a small track that had moss down the middle and gravel and streams of water on either side of the moss. The boys bravely went ahead, whilst I stopped and started every couple of metres to steady myself; it was so stressful. As I thought I was nearing the bottom, a lady walked up with her dog so I asked her if that was the bottom I could see, thinking I’d just go for it. Thankfully she warned me that it wasn’t the bottom, but a 90 degree bend and then more downhill, so I gave up completely and got off and walked – which actually wasn’t that much easier, trying to hold the bike back from running on ahead without me. As I neared the real bottom, Bert appeared, having been worried that I’d had a spectacular fall and was now lying in a hedgerow somewhere. He took my bike from me and we got down to the bottom together, where the others were waiting in what appeared to be a quagmire. We all pushed through the mud into Devon, pleased that we’d finally got out of Cornwall, but slightly concerned about Arthur’s ‘may need to walk a few hundred metres’ prediction. The only road out was what appeared to be a steep riverbed, full of boulders, stones and gravel, with rivulets of water pouring down in places because of the rain. As we slowly made our way up (no option here but to push), the bikes would career sideways as they jolted off boulders, or sometimes come to a stop completely when the boulders just blocked the way. Every bend we came to, we discovered we were still not at the top, but the prospect of turning around and heading back the way we had come was no happier. 

I’d thought getting out of Boscastle was bad. I’d thought getting out of Milook was bad. This was disastrous. Bert took one of my panniers when he noticed I wasn’t enjoying myself anymore and carried on up the hill with an extra one in tow. Calum took a photo that highlighted the angle we were climbing in order to avoid the A39. This made me laugh and I chuckled to myself the rest of the way up. 

Eventually arrived at the top, where we waded through yet another mudbath to get through a farm, and then stopped for much need cake and snickers. The day wasn’t over and we continued up and down some really steep hills as we traversed our way to Westward Ho! I was getting really tired by now, feeling a bit shaky and ready for tears, so when Bert waited for me yet again on another hill I had to walk down, I declared that enough was enough - I was heading back alone to the much avoided A39 and taking a direct route. Bert conveyed this to the others, and I felt strangely delighted when I discovered that Calum was going to lead the way so that three of us could take a more direct route. The final section along some tarmac roads was much easier and I was so relieved to arrive in Westward Ho! at about 8pm. Lovely views over the beach from my room, and the sun had come out too, chasing the rain away. 

Arthur arrived five minutes later, having headed off in a different direction to do a BCQ. He told us that after cycling / pushing through a field of really long grass, he too had had enough of the ‘roads’, and came back along the A39! 

Went to the pub (The Pier House) in the evening with Natalie, my friend who happened to be holidaying in Devon. Discovered it had wi-fi so spent the evening trying to update Facebook whilst making conversation! The boys told me that this was the hardest day and it would all be easier from here. Got to bed and managed to get to sleep despite the girls in my dorm whispering and giggling. 

How did I feel after today? Well, as it happens my email to my work colleagues sums it up well: 

Endurance test to the extreme. I'm so exhausted. Hadn't realised I'd be using arms as well as legs to push heavy bike up hills! Cycled for 9.5 hours. 

My chain came off 4 times today making me almost fall off each time so I ended up not using my cleats meaning the cycling was much harder. It's also made me lose my confidence a bit as every time I change gear I'm waiting for it to come off & for me to topple over. 

I'm also losing my confidence going down hills as they're all so steep and slippery with the bad weather & the back of my bike keeps trying to overtake the front & I go sideways & nearly lose it. It got to the stage that I stopped at the top of a hill & almost couldn't go down it. It took me all my will power to go for it, & then when my bike started to slip again I got off and walked! Twice. Please pray that I'll get my confidence back, that the hills will be gentler, the rain nonIexistent, that the wind will blow me up the hills & not almost sweep me into cars & hedges, that my legs don’t seize up & that I'm not too tired. Also that I keep up with the boys & get my chain sorted. 

Roll on the Somerset plains!!

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It was a surprisingly easy start today, with Bideford being just around the corner from Westward Ho! And a ‘find the bike shop’ smart phone versus local knowledge challenge. My smart phone won and I bought a very heavy chain that Bert kindly put in his panniers to carry. 

We then headed along the Tarka Trail, a national cycle route that was very flat, pleasantly wide, and took us straight along the river in the beautiful sunshine to Barnstaple. Exactly what I needed. One more hill this morning and I’d have been on the train home. Thankfully the boys didn’t tell me until much later that they had been ‘taking it easy’ to rest their legs on this stretch, as even though I enjoyed the conditions, I was still pedalling furiously to try and keep up and had been doing my ‘top speed’ all the way! 

Had lunch in a back alley in Barnstaple (where Calum had to pay an extra 50p for his Panini) and then headed up on to Exmoor, which was a fairly big climb but I was feeling confident again. We even did a category four climb and I managed it easily, only getting off to push at the very steepest point. As we hit Exford and counted the arches on the bridge (very pretty place), the heavens opened and the rain started, so we donned our waterproofs and Arthur donned his cape, then rode through to Dunster and on to Minehead. 

The rain was constant and heavy, so when Arthur tried to get in to Minehead by avoiding the A road, I quickly put him right and we headed straight in along the A road to find our B&B. 

It was bliss to have a double room and a ready made bed and ensuite shower and clean towels, and we all made the most of this by washing our clothes in the sinks and making both our rooms into mini-launderettes, with clothes hanging from every possible location in an attempt to dry them. The rain stopped and we walked out to The Ship Aground along the sea front, which was lovely. 

Smiler beer (and wine for me), good food, and a look at a steam train made it almost begin to feel a bit like a holiday. Unfortunately, the beer had an adverse effect on David and I felt that I might as well have been back in a girls’ dorm with the amount of toilet trips made through the night. 

Though of course, I’d much rather deal with David’s toileting than random strangers. Definitely worth the disturbance.

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Most of the clothes had dried well, so after a hearty full English, we put on wet cycling shoes and headed out into the sunshine feeling suitably rested and refreshed. By the time we got out of Minehead, the rain had started with a vengeance, so we stopped to put on the waterproofs and put away the last of the washing that still needed to dry. Shortly after this I had to stop again, to re-position my pannier, which was for some reason dragging along the pavement. 

We continued in the rain up and down the hills, and I had a slight accident when Bert called me on to a pavement: after skirting precariously along the edge of the kerb, neither mounting it nor remaining firmly on the road, I gracefully toppled over. 2-1. We eventually arrived at Bishops Lydeard, where we spotted a cosy looking café on the high street. After parking our bikes up in the handily located churchyard next door, we went in to the Daisy Cottage Tea Rooms, which was rather busy, and they managed to sort a table for us just by the window. We sat and dripped puddles on to the floor whilst eating delicious locally-sourced and home made tarts and watching the full wet rain. Cake, coffee and hot chocolate followed as we tried to delay the inevitable. We eventually left, anxious that Bert didn’t get too much of a complex after being repeatedly called Daisy, and headed back out in to the ‘sheet rain’. 

The road from here was pretty flat, went over the M5 (progress!) and hit the Somerset Levels, which were looking quite flooded. Cycled along the flat lanes surrounded by water, with rain dripping down our necks; it seemed to go on forever. We missed one turning and had to turn back, but finally made it to Street YHA after a steep hill. Calum declared the day to be ‘full wet’, as opposed to the medium wet days we had previously encountered. 

Having enjoyed my double room with my husband on the previous night, I didn’t quite feel ready to be catapulted back into a girl’s dorm, so we paid extra to share a room with just the two of us. This was a good move, as it meant we could peel off our soaking clothes and hang them from every available location in a vain attempt to dry them off. The drying room was already full with the chap from Manchester’s clothes, who annoyed Calum. There were also a bunch of cyclists doing LEJOG who had suffered lots of punctures and were behind schedule – they had to rearrange their accommodation for the rest of the route! 

Ate a two-course meal prepared by Calum, and the boys told me that this was the worst it could get – it would all be easier from here. Jane arrived with ample supplies of wine, which made the horrors of the wettest day ever seem slightly more palatable.

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Knowing we had an 80-mile day ahead, Bert and I set off an hour earlier than C&A. We headed over to Cheddar, firstly going through more flooded ‘levels’ and then up a hill that almost killed me. The burn in my thighs had been almost constant for the last few days, and knowing the long day I had ahead, I began to work out what I would say to Ray and Wendy to convince them to give me a lift home at lunchtime. There was no way I could keep this up; for the second time in the week I was almost in tears with every pedal rotation. Even worse, Bert just didn’t understand the pain I was in and refused to pander to my emotional needs! 

We reached the bottom of the Strawberry Line cycle path in Cheddar, and soon got to Axbridge, where an elderly man on his bike told us not to go any further as a tree was down. We decided to ignore his advice (how bad could it be?) and continued along the level, off-road track, enjoying the medium wet rain and lack of cars and hills. We soon hit ‘the tree’, which was indeed parked directly across the path, with its roots and branches well up the embankments on either side. Its coverage of the path was rather more spectacular than anticipated, and after some careful examination, we chose our route through and deDpanniered the bikes. Bert climbed over first to check it was do-able, then I climbed over as he went back to manage the slightly more daunting task of carrying the bikes over. The first bike soon arrived, and I received it on my side of the trunk and gingerly scrambled through the branches, getting myself caught up in thorns and the bike tangled in the branches, until I eventually managed to emerge at the edge. Two ladies arrived on a leisurely ride out, and I was horrified to hear Bert offer to send their bikes over to me aswell! Four bikes later, the ladies smiled and waved and cycled off, while I began to put our bikes back together and tend to the thorn that had lodged itself well and truly inside Bert’s finger. Ouch. Two more cyclists arrived, and I glared at Bert, silently daring him to >offer my services again, but the thorn had distracted him and we left them to work out a route for themselves as we continued our journey. 

Waterproofs on. Waterproofs off. Waterproofs on…. The pattern continued as the rain continued to break through in patches that were worthy of needing cover. Puddles were big and I managed to cover myself from head to toe in mud. We cycled on along familiar territory, weaving along country lanes under the M5 until we reached Portbury, where we were meeting Ray and Wendy for lunch at the Portbury Priory. The sun had come out, and they were waiting for us with their camera and telling us how amazingly we were doing. The positivity oozed out of them both, and the opportunity to report how difficult it was and how I needed to go home vanished before my eyes – there was no way they would listen. Within minutes I was in the pub garden doing stretches and reporting on my eating patterns for Wendy to diagnose and advise correction for the remainder of the journey. Oh well, my bail out attempt had failed. Maybe tonight when we met my brother in Welsh Bicknor… 

Calum & Arthur arrived at the pub as we were preparing to leave, so we left them to drink tea and coffee in the sunshine and arranged to meet them at the Severn Bridge. C&A had taken a different route to us, five miles longer and slightly more hilly as they went over the Mendips to Wookey Hole (and a BCQ!). The BCQ seemingly had the pair looking at the amazing views, but mist prevented any viewing and Calum went on to wait at the gazebo in Priddy, leaving Arthur to it. We crossed the Avonmouth Bridge and made our way up to the Severn Bridge, with renewed energy from a healthy lunch and good advice, and a big bag of flapjack in Bert’s pannier. Ray and Wendy were waiting with Costa Coffee and lucozade, and we drank and chatted while we waited for C&A. A cyclist chap told us to go over to the other side of the bridge because the wind was bad, so we pushed our bikes over the top of the toll booths and weaved down to the motorway on the east side. We cycled over the Severn Bridge, which was quite exciting and windy even on the sheltered side, arriving in Wales mid afternoon with quite a distance still to go and did some food shopping in Chepstow before we continued. Cycled through the Forest of Dean with lots of ‘extreme undulations’ and it was very wet. I kept up well with my newfound energy, though was glad to arrive at the back entrance to the Welsh Bicknor YHA. After diving under a barrier and crossing a footbridge, we trekked with our bikes through a very muddy path, arriving at the hostel itself what seemed like hours later – it was 8:30pm. The boys told me this would be the worst day and things would get easier from here. 

This was the busiest hostel I’d seen with large groups of people milling around everywhere. I was sharing a dorm with a 65-year-old lady from New Zealand who had cycled from Rome. I had a quick shower and rushed downstairs to meet Andrew and Vicky who were driving over to meet us. Calum made a lovely meal and we sat in the kitchen area eating and drinking for a very pleasant couple of hours. The memories of the first week were already becoming funny moments as the horror of the pain and fatigue faded, and it was lovely to sit and laugh about Milook, and the border crossing into Devon, and the fact that this morning we were as far away as Street! 

Suddenly I was beginning to feel like I was a real part of this team, as we faced the trials and the laughter together on the journey north. Oh, the joys of the passing of time.