Kent to Land's End: Day 5 (and 6): finish

I climbed out of Perranporth feeling optimistic for a day similar to the one I had hoped for when I thought up the idea to ride to the end of the land. I tried to hug the coast best I could, I came close on many occasions and was gifted some ridiculous views, the sea a truly dark, rich blue. A colour you'd normally associate with warmer climes. I cycled down a tiny road, which led me to a secluded cove. There I found a chimney of an old tin mine, architecture which dotted the coast line from now on. I climbed again to continue in search of more views. Though it wasn't as easy as that, I was met with a short but stupid 33% climb with a switchback, I had to get off and admire.

I soon stopped for food, for the first time my legs were starting to become uncomfortable, especially my thighs. In hindsight I probably hadn't drunk enough. As the end of the road drew closer the pain slowly subsided as adrenaline took control. St Ives was my next target on the map. The road there wasn't nice but it led me to be met with a great view over the town and harbour. I passed quickly through and from here the road was a joy to ride.

This stretch of tarmac has to be one of the best coastal roads in Britain. It climbed and fell, turned and twisted, but the whole time looked out over the Atlantic off the north coast. It sliced through fields and nipped between farm yards and passed the odd hamlet dotted along its path. Some of these hamlets had names like Morvah, Carnyorth, and Bottalack, the B3306 is a road I suggest you one day travel upon. This was the kind of riding I'd been waiting for, the kind of moment I'd been riding for. I was counting down the miles, and as the road rose for the final time the home stretch lay before me, and it was quick. I began to let my mind wander about what I'd done, I didn't quite know how to feel, or what to think. It really was just a bike ride.

The last road junction in the land came, and then only a matter of meters, the reassuring smooth tarmac gave way for gravel. I coasted to a line on the ground in front of the building, next to line was a word, it read; finish. This line marked many things. I'd made it, unsupported from my home almost 400 miles away to this spot, a place where I could cycle no further west. It was incredibly symbolic, as symbolic as the way I'd sawed my tooth brush in half before I left.

I wandered around for a while trying to savour the moment. There was a 'Shopping Village' and somewhere to eat 'Chicago Town Pizza'... I stood looking out over the sea, I'd come here for this after all. There were a group of cyclists there, about to set off for John O'Groats. One asked if that's where I'd arrived from. I told them only Kent. He said that was far enough. I wished them all the best of luck and felt a sense of jealousy.

Here's to the people I met and the landscape I cycled through. Southern England, you're magnificent. I ate the best pasty I'd had all trip, sat down for a while amongst some rabbits and a jackdaw and meditated on the horizon.

FURTHER READING:


Soon I just got back on my bike and headed for a campsite, this time on the south coast. It was up a steep lane, then along a stoney track which led to a spacious site which looked out over the sea. A sea view for £7.50. A short walk and I was standing on the cliff top. It was a fairly noisy campsite and the wind off the water was strong. I pitched my tent sheltered by a hedge. I then spent some time reading my battered Albert Camus. I slept quite well and woke early, I'd planned a big day of riding, destination being Fowey, where I'd stay at Rosie's, a friend from college.

I wasn't far into my ride when the hills and even the flats began to be uncomfortable. The weight and the milage were taking its toll on my knees. I pulled aside, looked over to St Michael's Mount and had a think. I rang home to ask for an opinion although my mind was made up. It was silly to continue, this wasn't for charity, I wasn't breaking any records. I called it a day and made it to Truro where I caught a train to London.

Whilst I sat on a bench at the end of platform 3 an elderly gentlemen came and sat next to me. He was on his way home after visiting his Aunt, who lived on the Cornish coast. She had received her telegram from the Queen last December. I remember him saying something about camping which he'd recently got back into, he commented on tents saying that a 2 man tent was best when the other man's a woman. We moaned about the trains, the fact he had to pay for another ticket after losing his, even though he had proof he paid for the thing! And I was moaning that I had to book my bike on the day before, yet hadn't, and was told I may not even get it on. A train with 400 seats but only 6 spaces for bicycles. It turned out that this chap went to school in Greenhithe, which is where I work, the world continued to shrink.

I made it onto the train. Sat down and realised just how shattered I was. Ian, that was his name, offered me a book to look at. I said I had one. He opened his and almost immediately, fell asleep. I could have done the same. Though I stared out of the window looking at the countryside I'd just cycled and slowly came to the realisation that I'd done OK, the feeling of failure subsided. When I got off the train at Paddington Ian wished me a safe journey and I wished him the same.

The 10 mile ride across town to my sister's was completely mental. A total contrast from what I'd just experienced. Jam packed streets. Drivers out of cars shouting at one another. Pedestrians crossing on a whim. And the heat coming off the vehicles added with the evening sun was almost too much. I cycled through with other commuters, like a swarm we weaved through the rush hour traffic until I was within the boundaries of Greenwich Park. This adrenaline fuelled ride across the city almost made me want to escape again...